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cw: 18+, minors dni, age gap, modern au, cheating, intervention, jealousy, cuddling
w.c: 2.2k
Jordan’s tall. About the same height as Steve. Chloe’s looking at him, well looking at the both of them. While they explain to Jennifer what‘s going on. It’s fucked up, because this is a very serious matter and all Chloe can do is look at these two absolutely gorgeous men and compare them. Jordan really looks just like his dad. Same furrow in their brow as they look at Jennifer.
“How long would she be gone?” Jennifer asked.
Chloe probably shouldn’t be here right now. This feels like an intrusion, so she retreats to her room. Lays on her bed and scrolls through her phone. A long time goes by, Chloe wants to be supportive but she really doesn’t have the tools for this.
A moment later, Jordan bursts through the door. Chloe sits upright and looks at him, he's in tears. He looks at Chloe, confusion written all over his face and then he looks around the room. He nods slowly, “Ah, I guess it makes sense you’re in here…”
“Are you okay?” Chloe asks, looking at him.
Jordan sighs, looks down at Chloe, “You’re really living here like full time?”
She nods slowly, “Yeah. Sorry I took your room.”
“That’s… it’s cool. Uh,” he wipes his eyes, wipes away the tears.
“Do you want a hug?” Chloe asks, standing up.
She’d never really liked Jordan, but she hadn’t seen him vulnerable like this. It was kind of attractive, and well, really, after seeing those photos of Steve when he was younger, suddenly she was finding Jordan attractive. Which was horrible of her. She felt bad, very bad. She really should run out of here and find Steve.
But Jordan agrees, he nods and opens his arms. So Chloe hugs him, squeezes him. He’s tall, he smells nice. Chloe feels a twinge of excitement. Jordan wraps his arms around her, rests his cheek on her head.
“It’s gonna be good for her,” Chloe says.
Jordan squeezes her, hiccups, “You think she really needs it?”
Chloe holds him, admits, "Yeah, I do. I don’t think I’ve seen your mom sober.”
“Yeah,” he hiccups again. Like he’s realizing how bad his moms drinking has become. His arms tighten around Chloe. Cries a little harder.
She squeezes him, reaching up and petting his long, brown hair. It’s so soft. Jordan shoves his face against Chloe’s neck. Sniffling.
Then the door opens, and Chloe’s eyes meet Steve’s. He looks at her, perhaps a bit of pain written on his face. Chloe can’t tell, but it’s an expression she doesn’t like seeing on Steve’s face. She pulls away from Jordan. They both turn to look at Steve.
“Dinner’s here,” Steve says, turns and walks out. Chloe feels guilty, like she did something wrong. So she wants to apologize to Steve. She was just trying to comfort Jordan. It seemed like he needed a hug, that’s all. That’s what that was. She didn't feel anything out of the ordinary when hugging Jordan. Not at all.
They walk out behind Steve, seeing the pizza boxes on the table. He sits like nothing is any different. Jordan looks around, “Where’s mom?”
“Country club with Judith. She’ll be home around 8. That’s when we’ll uh, talk to her,” Steve says.
“So I’ll just crash on the couch tonight I guess,” Jordan says.
Steve shakes his head, “Chloe can sleep in Jenny’s room while you’re here, Jordan.”
Chloe looks over between them. Again and again. This isn’t the first time she’s been in the same room with them, but now things are different. She’s madly in love with Steve and now when she looks at Jordan, it’s like looking at a younger Steve. They’re that identical. Even their mannerisms are the same. The way they eat, each taking a bite of pizza and chewing. Chloe tilts her head as she watches. Both strong jaws work as they chew. Cheeks full. God, they’re handsome. Jordan’s hair is longer, pushed back and he’s mostly clean shaven. There’s a bit of scruff. Steve’s hair is shorter, less messy. Bits of gray. Much more scruff. He’s got wrinkles. But other than that, they’re basically the same.
She realizes perhaps the reason why she hadn’t ever felt attracted to Jordan was because he wasn’t around much and when he was, his fiancée was usually here with him.
Chloe’s staring at Jordan, doesn’t mean to but she glances back to Steve and notices his eyes on her. That pained expression is back. So Chloe asks, “Where’s Jenny?”
“Writing her letter. She says she’s not hungry,” Steve explains. “Chloe, I don’t think you should be there for the intervention, okay? Stay in Jenny’s room.”
“Yes, Mr. Harrington,” Chloe says, picking up her slice of pizza and taking a bite.
Jordan makes a face, looks at Chloe and then Steve. “Mom hate her or something?”
“She’s not that fond of me,” Chloe admits.
“Maybe that’s why she’s been drinking so much? ‘Cause you’re living here, working for my dad and shit. Maybe she’s threatened,” Jordan points out and Chloe’s face goes pale.
Steve snaps his head to his son, “Absolutely not. Since you left for school, she’s been like this. Your mother has no reason to be threatened.”
“Are you saying it’s my fault?” Jordan’s jaw drops, eyes wide.
“No! Fuck, no, Jordan. It’s my fault. Your mother hasn’t been happy for years. It’s gotten worse with you being away but I didn’t mean that it’s your fault. She just misses you. This is all my fault, that’s why I’m trying to get her help,” Steve explains.
Jordan snorts then, “The babysitter. That’s why I think maybe she’s threatened by you moving a hot, young girl in. That’s probably not helping much.”
Steve looks angry, his jaw tense as a vein appears down the side of his temple. His fist clenched on the table. Chloe feels wildly uncomfortable. And guilty. Because Jordan’s right. She and Steve are actively having an affair.
He’s quiet for a beat and then says, “Chloe needed help. That’s all this is, Jordan.”
“I’m sure,” Jordan mutters.
Just then, the door knocks. Steve gets up and lets the person in, it’s the interventionist. Chloe takes the opportunity to go into Jennifer’s room. She looks distraught. Chloe sits on her bed.
“You okay?”
Jenny shakes her head, “No. I mean, my dads right but it feels… like I wish we didn’t have to convince her to go.”
“Yeah, that’s the hard part… but it’s gonna be for the best,” Chloe says.
Then there’s a knock on the door, it’s Steve.
“Come on, princess. It’s time,” he says.
Jenny follows him out and Chloe lays back on the bed, waiting. She scrolls through her phone, and she can hear yelling. Lots of it.
She can only imagine how it’s going. She can hear Cindy’s shrill voice, can hear Steve trying to deescalate and then both kids expressing frustration. It goes on for a whole two hours.
Then Jennifer comes back to her room, looks at Chloe and asks in a whisper, “Can I be alone for a while?”
“Yeah, of course,” she nods, gives Jennifer a quick hug before leaving.
Chloe walks out into the living room. Sees Jordan sitting on the couch, a beer in hand as he watches the TV with a look of disinterest. Steve went with the interventionist to the rehab center to check Cindy in.
Jordan looks over at her, “Can I help you?”
“No. Jenny wants to be alone so… I just came out here,” Chloe explains.
He smiles, but it’s not genuine. A bit awkward. “Well then come over here. I’m watching basketball.”
Chloe walks over, sits next to him. She feels drawn to him, can’t explain it and knows she should sit further away. But in her sick mind it’s like experiencing what Steve might have been like when he was closer to her age. Jordan smells really good, like musky cologne. A little spicy. His face isn’t as full of worry as Steve’s is. And Jordan is mean. Chloe usually likes men who are mean to her. Steve’s never mean.
“How’s uh… school?” Chloe asks, leaning back against the couch to look up at him.
Jordan laughs, soft and breezy, “It’s fine. Do you really care?”
“A little bit. I think you’re going to school for something interesting,” Chloe explains. “Everyone says you’re really smart.”
He takes a gulp of his beer, turns to her and smiles. This one feels different, shows his pretty and perfect teeth. They look just like Steve’s. So do his hands, Chloe realizes as she looks down at his hand wrapped around the bottle. He looks at Chloe in a way he never has before. Like he’s actually looking at her for the first time.
“Do you know what they say about you?” he asks, turning slightly.
She shakes her head and admits, “I don’t want to know.”
“No, you don’t,” he snorts, turning his attention back on the game.
“How’s your girlfriend?” Chloe asks, then.
He shrugs, “Fine. Awkward. Called off the engagement or whatever.”
“Why?” Chloe inquires, head tilted.
Jordan frowns, kicks his foot up on the coffee table. “Something about I’m too distant, I care about my career too much. Something like that.”
“Is she not coming to Hawaii?”
Jordan turns to her, a smile spreading across his face as he asks, “Are you?”
“I am,” Chloe admits.
He bites his lip, still smiling and gosh, he’s so good looking. Chloe feels her stomach flip. It does it again when Jordan says, “This will be a fun trip.”
“I’m excited about it,” Chloe confesses, “I’ve never been on vacation.”
Jordan nods, sips his beer again.
Chloe changes the subject. “Are you excited to be a plastic surgeon?”
He nods again. Looking at her.
“If, like, I came to you,” Chloe sits up, “What would you say I need?”
Jordan sets his beer down on the coffee table and looks Chloe up and down, “I’d have to see you in order to tell you.”
“See me?”
He laughs, “Yeah, basically, you get naked. I get a marker and then mark up all the spots I’d fix.”
“Oh,” Chloe says softly.
“I don’t have a marker, but you could uh, show me,” he says, “I can just tell you.”
Chloe stands up, looking at him. She feels nervous, feels like she wants to show him. So she pulls her nightgown up over her head. Jordan’s eyes scan over her body. He sits up, moves his fingers forward and pinches at her side. He turns her, so he can see her backside and he pinches the flesh at the bottom of her ass cheeks. She likes feeling his touch. Chloe knows that’s bad. Knows this is so wrong. She can’t stop herself.
And apparently either can Jordan. His hand smoothes down the back of her thighs. He hums, like he’s deep in thought. He turns her around again. Stands up, pinches at her cleavage. Chloe looks up at him with wide eyes, awaiting for him to speak.
“You could go up a cup size,” he mutters, voice raspy in a way that makes her skin raise in goosebumps. He pinches at her hip, “Maybe a little lipo here and on your ass.”
He reaches down and grabs her nightgown, handing it to her, “But really, it’d just be an excuse to take your money.”
Then he sits down, reaches for his beer and takes a swig. Chloe pulls her nightgown back on and sits down. Then she hears the front door open, and she scoots away from Jordan. Turns her head towards the hallway, and there’s Steve. She’s immediately overrun with guilt. Hates herself a whole lot. He looks at her, he looks tired. He looks like he needs comfort.
Chloe watches him walk to his bedroom, watches the door close and looks back to Jordan. Because she wants to follow Steve, but she can’t. Not with him right here.
Jordan’s eyes follow hers, then land on her and he asks, “Has he been nice to my mom?”
She nods slowly, “Caters to her constantly. She’s not very nice to him.”
“Yeah, well, he cheated on her when I was a kid,” Jordan says, “Don’t think she ever forgave him. She brings it up a lot.”
“Your dad’s a really nice guy. Seems like he just made a mistake,” Chloe says, feeling guilt churn in her gut because he’s making it again. With her.
Jordan chuckles, shakes his head, “My dad’s a fucking idiot.”
Then he gets up, downs the rest of his beer and disappears into Chloe’s bedroom. She waits fifteen minutes. Then she wanders into Steve’s bedroom. He’s in bed, the lights are off. She climbs in behind him, curls up to his back. He’s warm and smells good. He turns, pulls Chloe into his arms and nuzzles his face against her neck. His arms tighten around her and she feels safe. She feels certain. She loves him.
“It’s gonna be okay,” she tells him.
He nods against her. Pulls her tighter against him. She puts her hand in his hair, scratches his scalp and holds him tight.
They fall asleep like that, which is a horrible idea. The timing is awful. Cindy just left. Both Steve’s kids are in the house. But there’s no other place she’d rather be.
Summary: A close call with danger at the charity gala leaves you, Keys, and Gator completely shaken. You and Keys struggle to see eye to eye on how the situation should be handled, and Gator takes it upon himself to remind you both what really matters.
Warnings (18+ only - MDNI): Got another long list for y'all - Some angst in the beginning, Kidnapping attempt, Gun violence, Gator's body count (the not fun one) goes up by 3, Non-sexual nudity, Relationship tension and arguing, Use of safeword in a non-sexual context, Drinking to cope, Discussion of unspecified trauma, MMF threesome, Beard kink? (idk Gator grows his out and Reader's into it), Sweat/Scent kink, Hard Dom!Keys, Manhandling, Nipple Play, Hair pulling, Degradation, Oral (m receiving)/Face fucking, Spanking, Anal play (f receiving - rimming, fingering & plug), Unprotected p in v sex, Eiffel tower, Facial, Rough Sex, Aftercare, M/M scene - kissing, grinding, handjob, blowjob, cum eating
Author's Note: Guys sorry for the delay but buckle in bc this one is 12k words. I know I said the next few chapters would be from Reader's POV but that was a big ole lie because we're back in Gator's POV already lmao. If you read the warnings, you'll notice some boy on boy action and I wanted that first encounter to be from the Gator's perspective 🤭 It was supposed to happen later in the story but surprise my hands slipped again and now they start going at it in chapter 4…oops!
I also feel the need to credit two sources of inspiration for this chapter, the first being this post about Gator w/ a beard which made me so feral I decided he needed grow it out in this fic. The second is Djo at Outside Lands this weekend - the performance made me even more feral and a sweat kink became extremely necessary.
Ok I'll shut up now — enjoy!
Gator is relieved when he finally gets to start walking you toward the exit of the gala venue. It's been a long night of having to stand around watching rich people drink their overpriced wine and listen to some of the driest motherfucking conversations he's ever heard. Christ even Lorraine Lyon's dinner parties weren't this boring.
You and Keys seem to be just as uncomfortable as Gator is though. Keys is better at hiding it, impressively shaking hands and not missing a stride in conversations. His speech moves Gator too, and he normally finds shit like this corny. But the earnest way in which he discusses the importance of prioritizing safe placements for foster kids stirs emotions under Gator's skin that, truthfully, have been slowly making themselves more known since he moved in with you guys.
He's still not fully sure he understands the draw to Keys specifically. With you, it makes plenty sense to him. You're gorgeous, kind, a good listener…Gator isn't surprised at all that you drew him in like a moth to a flame. His relationship with Keys feels more complicated though, different than other friendships he's had (not that there's been many genuine ones).
When the three of you played together for the first time the other day, Gator kept catching Keys giving him these…looks that he couldn't quite read. And Gator was surprised to discover that he enjoyed the way Keys was looking at him.
None of it makes any sense though, because these interactions almost feel romantic but Gator's not gay. It's probably just some weird connection they have after sharing you. That's what Gator told himself when he tracked Keys walking off stage, feeling a strange flutter low in his gut.
So yeah, it was music to Gator's ears when Keys came up to him and asked that he escort you to the car. He can't wait to get home, take this monkey suit off, and crash into bed after a fucking weird but pretty great week.
Gator keeps a hand at the small of your back as you two make your way to the valet. You're being awfully quiet, clearly drained from the evening.
"You doin' okay?" Gator rubs his thumb on your back, once again feeling the desire to do more than just guard you. Another feeling he's trying not to put too much stock in.
"Yeah." You stare straight ahead with a faraway look in your eyes. "Just wanna get home."
"Me too." Gator offers you a smile, but you don't look up at him. "I'll get you there soon." You only nod in response and Gator notices your steps falter a bit. "Your feet hurtin' ya?"
You guys enter the front lobby of the hotel and the entrance finally comes into view. "A little. But we're almost—"
"Excuse me, Mr. Tillman?"
Gator tenses when an unfamiliar man dressed in what appears to be a hotel uniform approaches and instinctively wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you tighter against him.
"Yes?" Gator narrows his eyes and clocks his name tag that says Brent.
"We've been asked to escort Mr. McKey's group to the side entrance." He eyes you and looks back at Gator. "There's been a security threat. Valet already pulled your car around."
Every alarm in Gator's head goes off. It's not protocol to take you to a more secluded exit in the event of a threat. He does remember seeing a Brent in the list of employees he studied today, but he's not one hundred percent sure this guy matches the photo.
"I'm not authorized to bring her anywhere without explicit permission from Mr. McKey." Gator stares at him, searching his face for any possible tell that might give away his true intention. "And he told me to escort his girlfriend to the front."
The man isn't thrown by Gator at all. "He hasn't been made aware of this yet. We can contact him now if you want."
"Gator," you groan. "Can we just go with him? I'm sure it's fine."
"Not until I talk to Keys or Amelia." Gator continues to stare at the guy. "We'll be right back," he tells Brent.
He smiles in a way that makes Gator's skin crawl. "Of course."
You roll your eyes but don't argue as Gator starts to pull you off to the side, then pauses, his eyes not leaving Brent. The man is completely at ease. Like Gator is feeding directly into his plan already. Which makes sense because if these guys had half a brain they'd know your bodyguard wouldn't just willingly change plans without word from Keys.
What Gator doesn't understand yet is what the end game is. Obviously, they're expecting him to refuse going with them, maybe even making a scene and trying to wrangle the rest of security. But why?
"Gator?" Irritation still pinches your pretty face. "Aren't you going to call—"
"Hang on. I need to think."
His clipped words makes your mouth snap shut and you follow his gaze as it scans the room. Four or five more faces that he doesn't recognize from the briefing have suddenly appeared at the edges of the room, standing by nearly every exit. Gator curses under his breath, planning on ripping the hotel and charity a new one when this is all said and done. But first, he needs to get you out of here.
Gator feels you tense under his palm and lean into him more. "Is something wrong?"
"Yes. But try to act normal." Gator pulls out his phone and tries calling Keys, but there's no answer. He taps on his earpiece. "Donnelly, you there?"
"Ten four," Amelia's voice crackles into Gator's ear.
"We have a hotel employee trying to get us to the side exit due to a supposed threat plus unaccounted for attendees compromising the other exits." Gator's mind races as he tries to relay the issue while also making sure no one else approaches you and keeping you calm, as you've been shaking since he started talking to Amelia. "What's your status?"
"Keys is surrounded by donors, it'll take me at least ten minutes to get him to the front." She lets out a frustrated sigh. "They probably planned on that. Can you get her to a vehicle?"
"Yes." Gator technically has no way of confirming that yet, but he knows in his bones that he's not letting you leave this building unless it's in a car he's driving.
"Then do it. Fast. I'll send the rest of the team to the lobby to round up anyone suspicious. Let me know when she's secure."
Gator drops his hand from his ear and hugs you closer to him, but keeps his eyes on your surroundings while he speaks to you, his voice low. "Sweetheart, I need you to listen to me carefully, okay?"
"Okay," you squeak.
With one final sweep of the room, Gator realizes what he needs to do. "We're gonna go with that guy to the side entrance." You suck in a breath and he squeezes your waist. "I know, baby. But they probably have a car waitin' and I need one to get you out of here. There's too much commotion at the front."
"But you don't know how many of them there are."
"That's why we need to go with them, so I can find out." Gator rubs small circles on your back. "If I insist on takin' you to the front, they'll probably ambush us and we'll be at a bigger disadvantage with the crowd."
"What about Keys? He—"
"My priority right now is you." You freeze at the intensity of his tone, one that implies that his urgency isn't just coming from a need to do his job. You both know you're way past that. "He'll be okay. He's got more security with him and he's not the one they're after."
You choke back a sob, trying your best to muffle it and keep your face neutral. "They're probably armed."
"So am I. They'll be bleedin' out before they even get a chance to raise a gun at you." Gator brings his hand to the back of your neck and tilts your head back to look up at him. "Do you trust me?"
You don't hesitate to answer him. "Yes."
Gator nods once. "Stay close to me." He walks you back over to Brent, who's still waiting patiently. "We're clear to go to this side exit."
It's subtle, but there's a flash of surprise in Brent's eyes. "Great. This way."
While they're still in the noisy lobby, Gator reaches behind him and turns the safety of his handgun off. He slips into the quiet, immoral place of his mind that he hasn't retreated back to in years. Not since those final days in North Dakota. He hasn't needed to.
His previous bodyguard gigs have had their fair share of danger, but the stakes have never been as high as the day he decided to turn his back on everything he knew. Not until you. Gator needs to be in this dangerous, hyper focused headspace because he needs you alive more than he needs to push away the darkness that threatens his own humanity. He needs to see you giggling and playing your stupid farming games on the TV. He needs to be able to lay down on your chest and feel your precious heart beating beneath his ears. He needs you.
If Gator weren't so desperate to get you out of here in one piece, he might've stopped to wonder why he's thinking silly thoughts like that. Right now though, he can't be bothered to unpack the hole he's foolishly dug himself into.
The chatter of the party fades away as Brent leads you two down a quiet hallway of guest rooms. A brief glance over Gator's shoulder reveals that no one is following you. Whoever's waiting for you guys on the other side of this, they've decided they don't need backup. Either because Gator has no chance of beating them, or they're arrogant. Gator says his first prayer in seven years in the hopes that it's the latter.
"What was this supposed threat anyway?" Gator asks. He squeezes your waist once, trying to signal to you that you need to steady your breathing more. "And why are we just hearing about it now?"
They're nearing the end of the hallway where Gator can see the exit that leads to the stairwell to the outside. He remembers from the map that they're coming up on an alcove where this floor's ice machine sits.
"The hotel's security just said they received an email similar to the ones Mr. McKey received." Brent shrugs. "Might be nothing, but given the graphic nature of them, they thought it be best to err on the side of caution."
Gator sees the ice machine come into view on his left and scoffs. "Interestin'."
"Hm?" Brent looks over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. You give Gator a confused look too. "What's that, sir?"
Gator removes his arm from your waist and gently pushes you into the ice machine's alcove. You understand immediately and retreat into the space. "We didn't tell the hotel anythin' about the emails Mr. McKey received."
Brent stops walking and realizes his fuck-up a second too late. Before he has the chance to reach into his pocket, Gator wraps his arm around his neck from behind and squeezes as he drags Brent backwards by the ice machine.
You stand at the other end of the small room, pressed against the corner as much as possible while watching Gator subdue Brent. Or rather, Gator's trying to subdue Brent but the fucker is surprisingly resilient and not passing out. Gator hears something vibrate in Brent's pocket. Whoever he's working with, they're getting impatient and Gator doesn't have anything to restrain him.
It's the last thing he wants to do, not because he gives a shit about Brent's life but because he really doesn't want you to witness what Gator's capable of. He's running out of time though, so he grabs Brent's head with his free hand and snaps his neck.
You watch Gator let the body fall against the linoleum with an unreadable expression. Gator decides that's probably better than immediate disgust and reaches into Brent's pocket to pull out his phone and finds a gun clipped to him as well. He holds the phone in front of Brent's face until it unlocks and quickly changes the security settings to not lock the screen before stepping over to the other side of the machine where you are.
"Hey, sweetheart." He cradles your face in his hands, a little unnerved by how vacant your eyes are but he knows it's likely shock. "Talk to me. You okay?"
A single tear slips from the corner of your eye. "'m fine," you mumble.
"You're doin' so good for me. We're almost out." Gator wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest. "I need you to take deep breaths for me. Focus on my heartbeat, okay?"
You nod against him and clutch onto the lapels of his jacket. Gator waits until he hears one good deep breath then pulls Brent's phone back out. An unsaved number had just texted him.
What's taking so long?
Gator types out a reply with one hand while the other rubs your back. Bodyguard got spooked and jumped me. They ran back towards the lobby. Our guys haven't seen them yet?
Three dots appear while the other person typed. Had to clear out. His security team got him out of the ballroom faster than expected. Meet us in the contingency spot while the others sweep.
It's not a lot to go off of, but Gator wasn't expecting them to be dumb enough to reveal their backup plan over text. Now that you feel much calmer against him, Gator reluctantly lets go of you and leans down to meet your eyes.
"Still with me, baby?" You nod, still clutching onto his jacket. Gator covers your hands with his. "We're gonna wait here a couple of minutes to see if anyone comes, then we're gonna run for the exit. Can you do that for me?"
"I—I don't…" You exhale and close your eyes. "I don't think I'm fast enough for that."
"Then I'm going to carry you."
Your eyes snap open. "But that's just gonna slow—"
The door at the end of the hallway opens and Gator covers your mouth with his hand when deep voices fill the space. He pulls out Brent's gun and presses you against the wall facing the hallway, as concealed as possible.
"Hallway appears to be clear," one man speaks into what sounds like a radio by the beeping noise rattling in the air. "We'll wait at the other end in case they come back this way."
Gator removes his hand from your mouth and holds his pointer finger to his lips. He slides in front of you to shield you from the archway that leads back out into the hallway, waiting for these guys to walk by so he can see how many there are.
When he sees two figures come into view, their backs to you guys, Gator lets them walk a little farther to see if any more footsteps trail behind them. Satisfied that it's just these two, Gator steps into the hallway and raises his gun.
After putting a bullet in one guy's head, his partner whips around but Gator's too fast for him and shoots him right between the eyes. Gator doesn't blink at the blood now seeping through the ugly carpet and bends down to wrap his arms around your legs to lift you over his shoulder.
Then he runs.
Luckily it's a short distance to the exit and Gator clears the rest of the hallway faster than any touchdown he made in high school. The frantic breaths coming from you are what keeps him going until you reach outside. By some miracle, the two of you are alone but he knows it's only a matter of time before more guys come to investigate those gun shots.
So he books it straight to the line of cars and sets you down by the trunk of the first one he sees. "Get to the passenger side now and get in as soon as I unlock it."
You do as you're told and trample over surprisingly fast in your heels while Gator smashes in the driver's side window with the butt of his gun and manually unlocks the car.
Both of you climb in quickly and you pant beside Gator as he reaches under the steering wheel to yank out the bundle of wires beneath it and cuts them with his pocket knife. The procedure is like muscle memory at this point and he's able to have the engine revving in seconds.
By the time a herd of goons burst out the door behind you guys, Gator's already burning rubber and halfway out of the parking lot. He stays silent while he watches in the rearview mirror carefully, expecting to see cars following him, but there are none. Whoever these guys are, they don't want to risk drawing attention to themselves.
You and Gator don't say a word while he drives to the nearest police station. Once he whips into the lot and parks in front the building, he gives you one sweeping glance to assess that you're okay before tapping his earpiece to talk to Amelia.
"Angel is secure. We're at the Kennebunk Police Station on Summer Street."
Amelia's voice booms into his ear. "We have police here too searching the property and questioning us. They said they'll have an officer escort you guys back now so that we can get her back in the apartment safely."
"Ten four."
Gator gets out of the car and runs to your door. When he opens it, you're still frozen and visibly shaken. He's seen people in this state a million times before and doesn't bother trying to convince you it's all fine, because it's not.
You don't say a word as he scoops you into his arms and brings you inside. Or the entire drive back to the apartment in Boston.
It's not until you sit down on the living room couch, and stare at Gator kneeling down to take off your shoes, that your face finally crumples and you let out a sob. Gator's heart aches at the sight of you so upset and promptly sits next to you to pull you onto his lap. Selfishly though, he's ecstatic that you're still breathing in his arms.
It's a delicate process getting you out of your fancy evening wear once your cries soften to a sniffle here and there. Gator carries you upstairs and brings you straight into the master bathroom, setting you down gently on your feet.
Gator palms the zipper on the side of your dress. "Can I take this off so you can shower?"
"I don't want to shower right now." You step out of his arms and walk back into the bedroom.
"I think it'd help you feel better." Gator follows you to the walk in closet and leans against the doorway.
"You're probably right." You unzip your dress and let it fall to the floor before undoing the clasp on your bra. "But I'm honestly way too exhausted and just want to sleep."
You pull one of Keys' t-shirts over your head and walk back over to Gator. He examines the mess of hair on your head from all the commotion, pins flying loose and curls sticking up every which way. Your makeup has seen better days too, smudged and streaking down your face from all the tears. What didn't make it onto Gator's shirt at least.
"Well, I'm afraid to touch that contraption you call a hairdo…" Despite everything, you crack a smile and it's the most beautiful thing Gator's seen all night. "But can I help you clean your makeup off?"
You nod and step over to your vanity, sitting on the stool as you rifle through one of the drawers and grab a package of makeup wipes. Gator takes it and pulls out one, tilting your head back to the ceiling so he can wipe your face clean. It takes about five goddamn wipes, but eventually Gator gets everything off your face and you look more like yourself again, save the crazy hair.
Just as you start trying to free your hair from its bobby pin prison, the noise of people entering the apartment downstairs travels up to the room along with Keys yelling your name. He appears in the doorway just as you stand up, his suit jacket gone along with the bowtie, and falls apart at the sight of you physically unharmed.
"Oh my god, baby." He closes the distance between you two in just a few long strides and throws his arms around you. "Thank god you're safe."
You wrap your arms around his waist and nuzzle into his chest. "Thank Gator. Compared to him I have the survival skills of a cockroach."
Gator snorts but doesn't have time to offer a retort before Keys pulls him into a bear hug and whispers, "I'm so glad you were there. I don't know what we'd do without you."
Keys probably doesn't realize how much the words pull on Gator's heart strings, because for a second Gator pretends like he's speaking generally. Like the two of you need him as a permanent fixture in your lives. Gator tries to ignore the way his stomach flips in the embrace and pats Keys on the back.
"Just doin' my job, man."
"Gator." Keys laughs and pulls away, squeezing Gator's bicep once. "Can you ever just take a compliment?"
Gator's cheeks heat, not just as the teasing, but also at the way Keys' eyes stare so…lovingly at Gator. That's probably not the right word to use but Gator can't think of any others, too lost in the way the warm lamp lights of the room make the hazel color of his irises almost look like honey.
"Is Amelia still here?" Gator shuffles his feet, suddenly needing a reason to get out of this room.
"Yeah, downstairs." Keys turns to you when you sit back down at the vanity, resuming your attempts to untangle your hair. "Let me, angel."
"Okay." You sigh and let your arms fall away while Keys carefully searches for pins to take out.
"I'm gonna go talk to her. I'll be right back."
Keys hums in approval while Gator exits the room, stomping downstairs where Amelia is standing in the kitchen with Millie, hovering over an iPad. Both of them look almost as disheveled as you did.
"The hell happened back there?" Gator snaps and puts his hands on his hips.
Amelia presses her mouth into a tight line. "We don't know."
"You don't know." Gator pinches the bridge of his nose. "We had that place surrounded with security and got there two hours early to watch every person trickle in. Yet somehow these guys still got in and no one knows how?"
"Correct." Amelia swipes at the iPad. "The event registrations all check out and security footage didn't catch anything."
Gator practically vibrates with the kind of anger that could make him kill three more people. "What the hot fu—"
"Gator." Millie waves in front of him. "Listen to what we're saying. These guys managed to get in and out of that venue without a trace after all the security measures we put in place."
It takes a second for that to sink in before Gator's hands fall. "There's a rat."
Millie nods. "It's not much, but it's the best lead we've had so far. We're going to be combing through employee data starting tomorrow."
"Alright." Gator rubs the back of his neck. "So what happens here?"
"I have more security guards stationed at this building for a twenty four seven watch." Amelia flips the case shut on her iPad. "And I've told Keys that none of you should leave the apartment for a few days until we get a better handle on this."
"Done." Gator has no issue keeping you in this apartment for a bit. It's the only security he fully trusts.
"We're going to go." Millie grabs her clutch off the island. "Early start tomorrow. But Keys is under strict orders to not log on until Monday."
Amelia smiles at him. "Take care of them, Gator."
"Yeah. Will do." Gator watches them disappear down the front hallway and waits until he hears the elevator doors close before climbing up the stairs again.
In the bedroom, Keys has managed to completely free your hair and is almost done combing all the knots out. Gator shoves his hands in his pockets and approaches you guys at the vanity.
"Well, look at you." Gator locks eyes with you in the mirror. "Right as rain now."
"Sure." You offer a soft smile and grab a clip to secure your hair back.
"Ready for bed, angel?" Keys leans against the vanity and massages your neck with one hand.
"Yeah. Been ready." You stand and pause when you look at the bed, slowly turning your head to Gator. "Will you stay with us?"
It's a terrible idea. One that crosses a million lines Gator promised himself he wouldn't. But how was he ever supposed to deny you when you were standing in front of him with those sweet eyes of yours? Gator looks up at Keys to make sure he's okay with it too. He's got a different sort of look in his eyes that Gator can't quite place, but he does understand the slow nod Keys gives him.
Gator reaches out for you and cups your cheek. "'Course I will, sweet girl."
Keys and Gator both take off the rest of their suits until they're just in t-shirts and boxers then climb into bed on either side of you. You lay on your side, your back to Keys while he spoons you from behind, and reach out to rest a hand on Gator's chest while he lays on his back on your other side.
Gator tells himself to pay no mind to how natural it feels, because it's just for one night.
The rest of the weekend goes by in a daze. The three of you barely leave the room, the exhaustion of Friday night keeping you all rotting in bed for two days aside from meals and showers.
Gator keeps sleeping in the bed with you and Keys. Not necessarily on purpose, as idiotic as that may sound. He lays down beside you each night, telling himself it's just until you fall asleep. But something about the warmth of both your bodies and your natural combined scent soaking the sheets has Gator drifting off before he even realizes it.
Somehow, it's the best he's slept in years too, maybe even his whole life. Come Monday morning, he wakes up feeling actually refreshed.
It's six a.m., the time his body always wakes him up, and you're of course still sleeping soundly on your stomach in between him and Keys, your head facing Gator. You took the week off work to recover from the shock of everything so Keys probably won't try to rouse you for a a few more hours.
Gator yawns and sees that Keys is already awake too, idly tracing patterns on your back. When they lock eyes, Keys smiles and Gator's skin tingles again. This bed sharing arrangement has only made those strange feelings for Keys more prominent. In those first few moments after waking up, when Gator still feels like he could be dreaming, a soft voice inside him puts a name to what he's starting to feel. He wonders how long he can keep ignoring it.
"You sleep okay?" Keys asks, his voice low and thick with sleep.
"In this fancy, overpriced mattress?" Gator smirks. "Yeah, Keys. Slept great. Just like the other two nights."
"Alright, easy." Keys chuckles.
You stir between them and your eyes start to flutter open. Keys splays his hand on your back and you groan as you turn onto your side, your back facing Keys in the usual position you two find yourselves in.
"Morning," you grumble as you reach behind you to wrap Keys' arm around your chest and hold your hand out to Gator, who threads his fingers through yours and kisses your knuckles.
"Good morning, angel." Keys nuzzles your neck and presses one light kiss there. "Sorry, did we wake you?"
"'S fine." You yawn and blink at Gator. "Slept plenty all weekend."
"It's okay if you need to sleep more," Gator offers. "You went through a lot."
"I'm fine." Your voice is sharper suddenly, cutting through the hazy sleepiness of the morning. You turn to look up at Keys. "Can you just keep kissing me?"
Gator can see the hesitancy in Keys' eyes, but he leans down anyway and peppers your neck with more kisses. Gator knows it's not exactly the kind of kissing you're looking for with the way you wriggle against Keys and squeeze Gator's hand. He shifts closer to you and kisses you on your forehead, matching the light pressure Keys has set.
"Guys." You huff and tug on each of their shirts with both of your hands. "Stop treating me like I'm made of glass."
Keys sighs. "That's not what we're doing."
It takes all of Gator's self-control not to grimace. He knows exactly how this is about to go, but there's no point in trying to step in. At the end of the day, you and Keys belong to each other and he's just a guest.
You slap the mattress in between you and Gator and sit up. "You've barely touched me since Friday aside from all these delicate little pets." You cross your arms. "Tell me it's because you're too shaken up still and I'll drop it."
Gator holds his breath, knowing Keys can't tell you that because it's not the truth. He's being careful with you because he's doing that well-meaning but infuriating thing where he assumes it's what's best for you right now.
Keys sits up and reaches on the nightstand for his glasses. "Baby, you were almost kidnapped two days ago."
"Right, the operative word being almost." You push your hair back. "Thanks to Gator, they didn't even lay a hand on me. No shit it was terrifying, but I'm fine. I'm sitting here telling you I'm fine and you refuse to believe me!"
"I believe you," Keys snaps. "But I don't think it's a good idea to do our usual…stuff after everything."
Gator winces. "Keys, kinks got nothing to do with the trauma someone goes through."
Keys glares at Gator. "I know that."
"Do you?" You scoff and climb out of bed. "Because I feel like ever since this whole kidnapping threat came up I keep having the same conversation with you that I need you to trust that I know my own limits."
Keys jumps up. "Because I can't unsee the fucking pictures!"
Gator closes his eyes and exhales when he sees you freeze.
"What pictures?" you ask and turn to look at Gator, noting his equally guilty expression. "You knew about these too?"
All Gator can do is nod and flinches at the anger burning in your eyes.
"Whoever's doing this sent some pretty graphic images of what they'd do to you." Keys runs a hand through his hair. "Lately, it's all I can think about."
"And you didn't think to talk to me about it?" You throw your hands up and let them fall to your side. "Jesus, Keys. You've just been holding on to all this stress and letting me wonder why the dynamic shifted."
"I didn't want to scare you," Keys mumbles, knowing full well it's not helping his case.
"We're supposed to be a team!" You shake as tears threaten to spill from your eyes. "I don't let you be my dom because I want you to control everything and make assumptions on what's too much for me."
Keys clenches his jaw. "I wasn't trying to do that when I kept certain details from you."
"You can't even admit that?" You slide your gaze to Gator. "Did he or did he not tell you to keep the details of these threats from me?"
Gator bites the inside of his cheek, realizing now how they may have made a bad call. "We didn't want to worry you."
You give him a hard stare for a moment and then march to the closet, pulling on some shorts and a sweatshirt before stomping to the door. Keys watches helplessly as you stop in the threshold and look at him over your shoulder.
"Keys, I'm not mad because you made a mistake when you were scared." Your bottom lip quivers. "But you're supposed to know better than anyone what I'm capable of handling."
With the three of you still on lockdown, you decided that you needed as much space from Keys as possible. So you locked yourself in the other guestroom upstairs, where you slept the next couple of nights. Keys didn't object and gave you what you needed, knowing full well he messed up but didn't quite know how to fix it.
He still brings you coffee in the morning and wakes you up, but Gator can tell by the way Keys walks out of the room with his head low that he's still getting shut down. The forced proximity certainly doesn't help and the lack of developments regarding the kidnapping attempt only seem to weigh on all three of you even more. By Wednesday, it's clear to Gator that you're losing your mind.
So when you come down the stairs very clearly on a mission, he braces himself for another argument between you and Keys that he's about to get stuck in the middle of.
You walk up to Gator at the kitchen island and don't even glance at Keys where he's standing by the sink. "I want to go to the bistro on the corner for a drink. Are you ready to go now?"
Gator opens his mouth but Keys cuts in first. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Keys, I cannot sit in this apartment for another minute." You turn to look at him. "I need a distraction."
"I understand that, but you know it's not safe to leave yet."
You cross your arms. "Actually, I just talked to Amelia and she said as long as I stay on this block it's fine."
Keys blinks. "You talked to Amelia?"
"That's what I just said. I've been calling her directly for updates on the case."
There's a bite to your words that clearly affects Keys by the way he grips the counter behind him. "Well, I'm not comfortable with it. It's not happening, angel."
You stare at him, defiance written all over your face. "Strawberry."
Keys' mouth opens and closes as the realization dawns on him that he now has no choice but to let you go. Otherwise, he'll be doing something you guys really can't come back from.
Gator considers adding marriage counselor to his resume after this gig ends while he escorts to to the restaurant and sits with you at the bar. The bartender recognizes you and asks if you want your usual whiskey sour. You nod and thank him.
He looks at Gator. "What can I get you?"
"Just a diet coke, thanks."
You and Gator sit in silence for the first round, then you order another drink. The bartender drops it off in front of you promptly and it's when you take a big gulp that you finally look at Gator.
"You're not going to tell me to eat something?"
"You said the safe word." Gator scratches at the beard he's let grow out since all the chaos of Friday, needing to simplify his routine as much as possible. "I know you and Keys are the ones in a relationship but for the time being I'm involved too. So I'm not gonna be dominant with you again either until you tell me to."
"You don't have to be my dom to know that alcohol is a poor coping mechanism." You take another sip of your drink.
"No, but it sure as shit can be an effective one." Gator smirks at the the smile you try to bite back. "You deal with this however you need to. I'm just here to keep you safe from external threats."
"Well, you certainly do that well." You sigh and prop your chin on your hand.
Gator stares at you for a moment. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry about everythin'." He licks his lips and drums his fingers on the bar. "You deserved to know all the details and it was wrong to keep them from you. It's not an excuse, but I honestly thought I could prevent things from escalating." He lets out an unamused laugh. "I can be a little arrogant sometimes.
A quiet moment passes between you two. "I appreciate that, Gator." You lean on the back of your chair as you study him. "How are you so self-aware? Especially for such a macho guy."
Gator sucks his teeth but doesn't look away from you. "Four years of therapy to work through all the abuse I suffered from as I kid."
Your eyebrows shoot up. "Oh. I didn't know."
"How could you?" Gator shrugs. "There's not much of a story. Well, at least not one worth getting into tonight. My dad was an asshole, I spent my life trying to please him until I realized I was wasting my energy."
You furrow your brow and look down at the frothy liquid in your glass. "He's the kinda guy where nothing's ever good enough?"
"Exactly. But still took me twenty seven years to figure that out." Gator reaches out and places a hand on your knee. "The most important lesson I learned is that life's too short to not try to fix things with the people worth caring about."
"Believe me, I know that." You tear up and take a deep breath. "Keys is amazing. It's just so overwhelming sometimes with how much he cares, and then I just hate myself for feeling that way. It's such a dumb problem."
"No it's not." Gator squeezes your leg. "People like us…it's hard to let others in. To hear that they're stressed over our well-being."
You frown. "People like us?"
Gator removes his hand and leans back in his chair. "People who didn't get much love growing up."
Your lips part and your cheeks flush. "But I never said—"
"You didn't need to, sweetheart."
Gator pieced it together fairly easily, especially with the way you two connected so quickly. How you understood him and didn't seem fazed at all by his "quirks" as Dot would say.
"I love Keys so much and I know he's stressed. I really don't want to minimize that." You rub your temple. "But it drives me crazy when he holds back and lets this stuff affect our sex life. He makes me feel like I don't know myself or the right way to respond to all this shit."
Gator shrugs and watches you bring your glass to your lips. "You might be right there."
You hold the drink up for a moment while you look at him and slowly set it down. "You know what I can handle though."
Gator swallows. "Course I do. You're the toughest girl I know."
Your eyes twinkle and Gator's stomach flips. "I know you guys have this…connection. You push Keys in ways I didn't think was possible. I mean what we did last week, I've never seen him like that." You smile, mostly to yourself. "It was incredible. And dealing with something scary doesn't mean I want it to stop."
"Yeah?" Gator feels his heart pound in his ears as your eyelids grow heavy.
"It's like you said…" You lift a hand to his chin and lightly scratch his beard. "Life's short. Might as well enjoy it when you can."
By Friday, Gator still feels like he can cut the tension in the apartment with a knife. Things between you and him have defrosted, but you still spend most of the day in the guest room again, continuing to give Keys the cold shoulder while he stares up at the second level of the apartment with those puppy dog eyes of his before retreating to the office.
Eventually, Gator manages to convince you to come down for dinner, which is takeout because Keys hasn't surfaced from the office in hours. Gator realizes that he hasn't seen him since lunch and it's odd he hasn't made an appearance yet since Amelia told Gator that he signed off work about an hour ago. You don't seem bothered by it though, just sitting in your usual stool at the kitchen island and digging through the paper bag in front of you for your food.
Gator comes up beside you and leans on the counter while he rubs your back. "Can I get you anything else, sweetheart?"
You shake your head, so Gator kisses the side of your head and leaves to check on Keys. When Gator stops outside of the office, where he hears cursing and something banging. He pushes open the door and finds Keys in the center of the floor surrounded by various building pieces as he assembles some sort of shelving unit. Gator notices that his forehead is drenched in sweat, likely due to the fact he was working in a thick hoodie with what looks like a collared undershirt underneath.
"The fuck you doin'?" Gator closes the door behind him.
"Building a new craft cabinet for her." Keys doesn't look up from his tools. "Figured she might—"
"Keys. She doesn't want a fucking craft cabinet." Gator crouches down to be eye level with him. "You know that."
Keys stares at the piece he's holding in his hand for a moment before chucking it across the room and rubbing his eyes. "Yeah. I know."
"Jesus, man. Will you take that sweatshirt off?" Gator sits on the floor and brings his knees to his chest. "You're givin' me heat stroke just lookin' at ya."
"Yeah, I know I didn't dress for the occasion." Keys yanks the sweatshirt over his head, revealing a very sweat soaked gray shirt underneath that's only partially buttoned. Gator can't help but stare at the hair on his torso and the stubble growing on Keys' jaw. The scruffy look works well for him, though Gator doesn't know why he notices this.
Gator looks up at the ceiling and lets out a breath. "What're you doin' Keys?"
Keys pinches his eyebrows together. "I told you…building this cabinet."
"No. I mean why are you up here instead of down there tryin' to fix things with her?"
It's more forward than Gator's ever been, and Keys technically has every right to tell him to fuck off.
But he doesn't. He looks down in his lap, the damp ends of his sweaty hair hanging low in his eyes. "I know what she wants. And I want to give it to her. So badly."
Gator tilts his head to the side. "Then what's the problem?"
Keys squints and rubs his eyes. "I'm worried about losing control." He looks at Gator. "I've been having trouble focusing and going about scenes in that headspace makes me so anxious. I know that's what safewords are for but shit can still happen."
"That makes sense." Gator leans in closer. "But the fact that you care so much, that you know exactly how important approaching this stuff with a clear head, tells me she's in good hands with you."
"I guess." Keys pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. "I know it's small, a slip up that makes her use the safeword, but with all this other shit going on…it'd be hard to handle the guilt."
Gator scratches his beard and twists his mouth. "Well, it's not like you'd be running the scene alone."
Keys lifts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. "That's true."
"We made a pretty good team last time." Gator grins. "I got your back, man. If things look like they're getting too intense, I'll be there to help you reel it in."
Keys considers this for a moment, his eyes darkening at the thought of finally giving in. Gator can tell he needs this as much as you do.
"Go get her and meet me in the bedroom."
Gator's already half hard when he walks downstairs. You've stepped away from your dinner and are pouring a diet coke over ice. You don't look up as Gator approaches you.
"Your guys' food is getting cold."
"Hm." Gator steps right up behind you and presses you against the counter, making you gasp and slam the soda can on the granite. "Well, how's your dinner, sweetheart?"
"Um…" You suck in a breath when Gator reaches around you to knead your tits. "It's good."
"Yeah?" Gator leans in and kisses your neck, slowly dragging his face up your skin to let you feel the course hair of his beard scratch you. "Think we might be hungry for something else now."
You let out a strangled noise when he pinches your nipples through your shirt. "Like what?"
Gator rubs his prickly jaw against your cheek, enjoying the way you whimper and squirm but can't go anywhere. "Think you know."
"Fuck," you mewl as he nuzzles his beard into your skin even harder. "Gator…"
He slaps your left tit. "Wanna come play with us?"
You nod emphatically. "Please."
Gator steps back and spins you around, immediately throwing you over his shoulder to carry you upstairs where Keys is already waiting in the bedroom by the foot of the bed. He sets you down just inside the door and you frown when you take in the sight of Keys.
"Why the hell are you so sweaty?"
"Doesn't matter." Keys beckons you forward with two fingers. "Come here."
Gator nudges you forward from behind and follows close behind as you step over to Keys. Gator positions you in front of him and Keys smiles at him over your head, nodding once before each of them start tugging your clothes off haphazardly, each of them groping you as they do it.
Once you're fully naked, Keys turns you around to face Gator and pushes on your shoulders. "Kneel."
You sink to your knees as Gator undoes his jeans and pulls out his cock. He loves the way you're practically drooling for it already while Keys pulls your hair back into a makeshift ponytail and shoves your head forward without warning.
"Open up, sweet girl." Gator holds the tip to the seam of your lips and groans as you put your mouth around him.
"That's right, angel," Keys growls. "Take it all in."
You moan around Gator and close your eyes, swirling your tongue around his throbbing dick. He looks up at Keys, meaning to ask permission to take the wheel but his brain empties when he sees Keys still staring at Gator's dick, licking his lips while he guides your head up and down his shaft.
Keys pauses and holds you still. "Go ahead and fuck her mouth, Gator. I know she wants to choke on you."
You hum and hollow your cheeks in response, sucking on him. Gator places a hand on the top of your head and does one brief, shallow thrust forward.
"Tap my leg if it's too much, baby."
You don't get a chance to respond before he thrust into your mouth again, this time hitting the back of your throat. You gag a bit and grab onto Gator's thighs for balance but don't give any indication of wanting to stop.
Keys groans as he watches Gator pump in and out of your mouth. "Fuck, she loves that. Look at her eyes rolling back into her head."
"Yeah?" Gator chuckles when you dig your nails into his thighs. "You like it when I use your mouth like this?"
"Mmph…mmph," is all you can manage. Tears stream down your cheeks and Gator wants to tell you how amazing you are, but this isn't that kind of scene. He'll have to save it for later.
Keys tightens his grip on your hair. "Jesus, I bet she's soaked already just from you shoving your cock down her throat."
"Why don't we find out?" Gator pants. "I won't last much longer with the way she's sucking on me."
"Fair enough." Keys yanks you off of Gator by your hair, a string of spit keeping you connected to his cock.
He drags you onto the bed and shoves your face into the mattress, your ass in the air and part of your glistening pussy visible to them. Keys brings his hand down on your left ass cheek and slaps it hard enough to make you lurch forward.
"If you want us to fuck you like a little whore so bad, you gotta show me how tough you are first." Keys slaps your right cheek. "Count for me."
He spanks you again, your ass already getting red. "One," you moan.
Another spank. "Two."
Keys keeps going, new beads of sweat forming on his forehead and dripping onto your skin until you hit ten and your ass is bright red, fresh tears spilling from your gleaming eyes. Gator got so lost in the sight of you like this that he started absentmindedly jerking himself off.
"Get her ready for me." Keys nods to Gator and steps over to the nightstand while he starts peeling his sweaty shirt off along with his pants.
Gator takes of his shirt before he drops to his knees immediately and dives into your wet folds, moaning obscenely at the discovery of how absolutely drenched you are just from getting your mouth fucked and spanked. Gator spreads your ass cheeks and drags your arousal up to your tight little hole and swirls his tongue around, noticing Keys' sweat mixed with the more familiar taste of you and nearly comes at how incredible it all feels on his tongue.
You cry out in surprise at the vigor of which he laps up your and Keys' combined body fluids and Gator squeezes your flesh, now focusing on rimming your smaller hole. He lavishes you there and loves how he can feel your cunt flutter around nothing when he drags his tongue back down to gather more of your arousal.
The sound of a bottle cap opening pulls Gator out of the trance he's in. He looks up to see Keys holding a bottle of lube over you and letting it pour down your slit.
"Fuck," you shudder at the new sensation. "Gator, Keys…please."
Gator stands and starts dragging the pad of his finger over the smaller hole, eventually pushing it in and being pleased to discover you open beautifully for him.
"God, she's sucking me right in." Gator looks up at Keys. "You fucked her here yet?"
"Just fingers and this." He holds up a metal butt plug. He reaches out to palm your raw ass and spits on Gators finger as they move in and out of you. "Maybe you could be her first."
You moan in agreement, rendered speechless as you fist the comforter by your head when Gator slides another finger into your asshole.
"Shit, you want that, baby?" Gator keeps dragging his fingers in and out, making you a drooling mess on the bed.
"Yes, god…please." You push up onto your hands, your elbows wobbling a bit. "Need you there, Gator."
"Later, angel." Keys drenches the plug with more lube. "We have other plans for you tonight."
Gator withdraws his fingers and uses both hands to spread you open for Keys while he pushes the plug against your hole. "Deep breath for me, honey."
You inhale slowly and as you exhale, Keys pushes the plug all the way into you.
"Fuck, that's gorgeous." Gator rubs your ass and lines himself at your entrance. "Ready to fill her everywhere else now?"
"Shit, yeah." Keys grabs your chin and traces your bottom lip with his thumb. "She's really gonna be cock drunk now."
You whimper and lick Keys' thumb. Gator watches him study you with admiration glowing behind his hard, dark eyes as he grips the base of his cock and pushes it against your lips.
As you're taking Keys in your mouth, Gator slips his cock into you, throwing his head back in the blissful haze of how incredible you feel. With Gator holding your hips and Keys holding your hair behind your head, they both set a rhythm that's in sync with each other's thrusts, stuffing you completely full all at once. Muffled sounds of pleasure gurgle around Keys' cock, already having his hips stutter.
"Fuck, angel. You're such a dirty slut aren't you?" Keys surges forward and makes you gag once before resuming his faster, shallow thrusts. "Needing us to both to fill you like this."
Gator smacks your ass. "You just love bein' our little toy, don't ya?"
"Mmmm." Your eyelashes flutter as you hollow your cheeks, making Keys cry out.
"Fuck, I'm gonna come." He pulls out of your mouth and starts jerking himself off. "Gonna come on this pretty face, yeah?"
"Please," you beg, your voice raspy and stuttering a bit while Gator keeps slamming into you from behind. "Give it to me, baby."
Hearing your desperation is enough to push Keys over the edge, white ropes of come spurting out into your mouth and on your face. Gator shocks himself by practically whining at the sight of it. Keys' eyes snap to him immediately, something wild flashing in his eyes before returning his focus to you.
Keys pushes you up flush against Gator's slick chest, the new angle making you babble a string of curses and their names. Gator places a hand over your throat to steady you while he continues his merciless pace and rubs his beard into your neck again. Keys pinches your nipple with one hand while his other presses against your lower abdomen where Gator is rearranging you guts.
"Oh god…" You reach out and grab onto Keys' neck. "Baby, please."
"Please what?" Keys snaps.
"Please—oh!…make me come."
"Fine." Keys drags his hand down further and begins circling your swollen clit with his fingers.
Your walls clamp down on Gator's cock and it feels heavenly like it always does. But what really starts winding up that coil in his stomach is the feeling of Keys' fingers accidentally brushing Gator's dick as he splits you open. He's pretty sure he only has seconds left at this point.
"Come on, baby." Gator speeds up his thrusting. "Prove to me you're our dirty girl and come on this cock."
Like always, you do exactly as you're told. You vibrate in between Gator and Keys as your orgasm rips through you with Gator following close behind, pumping you full of his come while your pussy clenches around him. Only when Gator slows his thrusts down do a complete stop does Keys stop working you.
Keys presses his forehead to yours and laughs as Gator caresses your hips while slowly pulling out of you. "Christ, angel. You're incredible."
You drag your hands over his glistening chest hair, blinking sleepily. "Yeah?"
"Fuck yeah," Gator agrees and presses a kiss in between your shoulder blades. He grips the base of the butt plug. "I'm gonna take this out, okay beautiful?"
You nod and hold onto Keys, biting your lip as Gator gently pulls the plug out. Keys stares at you longingly, pushing back your hair as he cradles your face.
"I love you, angel. So much." He kisses you softly on the lips. "I'm so fucking sorry."
"I'm sorry, too." You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him again, nothing but adoration in your bright eyes. "I love you."
Yeah, Gator's definitely putting 'marriage counseling' on his resume.
Gator wakes up the next morning to the smell of coffee. He blinks as he stirs awake and checks his phone, shocked to discover it's already eight in the morning. He's pretty sure he hasn't slept that late since he was a teenager.
But of course, you're still dead asleep beside him. Keys' side of the bed is empty, so Gator deduces that's the source of the coffee. He presses his lips to your forehead and slips out of bed to head downstairs.
In the living room, Keys sits on the couch with a video game controller in hand. His shaggy hair is more unkempt than usual, mussed with sleep, and his eyes are still droopy behind his glasses.
He looks up at Gator when he approaches the couch and smiles. "Hey. You slept late today."
"Guess last night's activities knocked me out good." Gator chuckles and shoves Keys' shoulder.
Keys snorts and holds up his controller. "You wanna play with me while we wait for sleeping beauty to wake up?"
Gator looks at the screen and sees a large field of grass. He scowls. "This ain't that boring root pulling game she likes so much is it?"
"What…oh!" Keys throws his head back laughing. "Are you talking about Animal Crossing? Yeah it can be slow sometimes. But no, this is Legend of Zelda."
"Hm. Never heard of it."
"It's pretty fun." Keys raises his eyebrows. "I could teach you if you want."
Gator yawns. "Maybe later. After coffee."
"Sure." Keys leans forward and tosses the controller on the coffee table. He stares ahead, thinking for a moment before turning towards Gator. "Hey…thank you, by the way."
"Er, for what?" Gator scratches his beard.
Keys lets out a nervous laugh. "Shit, everything I guess." He looks at Gator, his features relaxed and soft. "I know you came for a job, but I really like having you here."
Gator stares at Keys' mouth, like he has plenty of times already in the month he's known the man. Times where he couldn't understand the feelings stirring inside him, but now Gator does. In the softness of the morning, when things always feel less complicated, he's sitting close enough to Keys to smell the faint traces of his leftover cologne, the coffee on his breath, and that natural musk he can now recognize after a week of sharing a bed.
It's clear as day to Gator in this quiet moment where he feels like he can really let go: He wants to kiss Keys.
When he looks back up into Keys' eyes, which sparkle with flecks of green as the sun illuminates the side of his face, Gator recognizes that hungry look of his that's usually reserved for you.
"Gator," Keys whispers. He licks his lips and shifts a little closer.
The small movement is enough of an invitation for Gator to close the distance between them and press his lips to Keys'. Embarrassment floods him immediately when he remembers that he has no idea what the fuck he's doing, and he's just about to pull away when Keys moans into his mouth. The sound goes straight to Gator's cock and the anxiety leaves his body as quickly as it came. He deepens the kiss and is about to push his tongue into Keys mouth, but Keys beats him to it and slips his in first.
Gator's surprised to discover he doesn't feel any need to fight for dominance and encourages Keys by grabbing kiss face to keep him close, groaning at the way the man's large tongue massages his own. With the slow and gentle way that Keys is kissing him, it melts away that usual desire to take charge of someone's pleasure because Keys apparently already knows how to get it. And Gator's surprisingly willing to let him take it.
Keys puts his hands on Gator's waist and squeezes his flesh there, the stark difference in strength between you and him catching Gator off guard enough to make him gasp.
"You okay?" Keys murmurs against Gator's lips and pulls away just enough to look into his eyes, rubbing small circles on Gator's chest. "You're shaking."
Gator swallows and nods. "It's just different."
Keys gives him a lopsided smile. "I know. You feel good though." He trails his hand to the soft pouch of Gator's stomach and gives another gentle squeeze. "We can stop if you need to."
"I don't wanna stop," Gator breathes. "But I got no clue on how to…you know."
That elicits a chuckle from Keys and he leans in to plant light kisses on Gator's burning cheeks. "It's okay. We can just keep kissing and see what happens." He drags his palm down further along Gator's thigh and squeezes it. "If it's too much, just say the safeword."
Gator doesn't understand how Keys has seemingly never been with a guy either yet is totally at ease right now, feeling up Gator's body like it's second nature.
"Thought you said you never done this before," Gator mumbles, staring at Keys' hand work it's way back up his body.
Keys kisses Gator's jaw and nuzzles into his neck. "I've imagined it a couple of times." He smiles against Gator's skin and presses another kiss on his temple. "I can show you what I've been thinking about if you want."
Gator's heart slams against his chest. He's obviously thought about Keys too, he's man enough to admit that now, but never really had a clear picture of it. Something about Keys' confidence though, along with how tenderly he's comforting Gator, makes him feel safe enough to let this guy drive.
"Okay," Gator says. "Show me."
Keys sighs and kisses down Gator's neck, the pressure of the suction from his mouth sending electricity down Gator's spine. Keys tugs on the hemline of Gator's shirt. "Can I take this off?"
Gator nods and sits up to let Keys pull it off of him. Keys takes off his own shirt while Gator instinctively leans back against the cushions. Keys drinks in the sight of Gator's half naked body and climbs over him.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous, Gator." Keys leans down and presses kisses along his chest. "I used to catch myself staring a lot, thinking I just wanted to know your gym routine or something."
Gator huffs out a laugh. "Is this how a woman feels when she's objectified?"
Keys snorts and kisses back up Gator's neck, pecking his lips once before laying down on his side to wedge himself between Gator and the back of the couch. He looks down at Gator as he trails his long fingers through Gator's chest hair before splaying his hand on his torso. "Still feeling good?"
Gator nods quickly, surprising himself with his own enthusiasm as he grabs the back of Keys' neck and pulls him back down for another kiss. Keys melts into it immediately and slots his thigh in between Gator's legs while he licks into Gator's mouth.
They fall into an easy rhythm, slow and wet smacking sounds filling the air as they explore each other's mouths. Gator keeps holding onto Keys' neck for support, feeling so dizzy he's worried he'll float away otherwise. Keys runs his fingers through Gator's hair with one hand while the other continues to roam up and down his bare torso. He holds Gator in that careful, methodical way he always tends to you, like Keys wants to treasure him. It feels amazing, unlike anything Gator could have imagined, but he wants more.
"Keys," Gator whimpers in between kisses, not even recognizing his own voice. "I—can you…"
"You want me to touch you?"
Gator's nose brushes against Keys' while he nods. "Please. I'm sorry, I just—"
"Hey," Keys interrupts, planting a soft kiss on Gator's lips. "Don't apologize. I'm dying to make you come."
Gator sucks in a breath. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." The corner of Keys' mouth lifts as he brings his hand up to cup Gator's cheek, rubbing his thumb along the stubble. "Kept thinking about it last night while watching you fuck our girl's mouth. How badly I wanted to make you fall apart."
"Fuck." Gator's brain short circuits. "I'll let ya."
Keys hums and licks along his jawline before sucking his earlobe into his mouth. "You gonna be a good boy for me?"
Gator's cock strains against his sweatpants. "Whatever you want. Just please don't stop."
This submissive side to Gator is completely new, but it felt damn good letting Keys take the wheel.
The other man's fingers trace Gator's bottom lip. "Open. I wanna feel how that dirty mouth of yours has been sucking my girlfriend's clit."
Gator lips part in shock at his filthy words and Keys uses the opportunity to shove two fingers into his mouth. His other hand tugs on Gator's hair a bit, which feels so good that Gator moans around Keys' fingers and grabs his wrist, swirling his tongue around them and lapping at the salty taste of his skin.
"Fuck, you feel so good." Keys rolls his hips against Gator's thigh, letting Gator feel his hardness.
He pulls his fingers out of Gator's mouth and replaces them with his tongue, immediately giving Gator kisses that grow increasingly sloppy and desperate. Gator feels like his entire body is on fire and reaches down to tug his sweats off.
Keys laughs against Gator's lips. "Someone's impatient. You need me that bad?"
"Shit." Gator's stomach muscles contract as Keys' wet fingers drag down his happy trail. "Yeah I do. Please."
"Okay, okay." Keys presses a kiss to Gator's cheek. "I got you."
Gator watches carefully as Keys finishes pushing down his sweats and boxers just enough to let his cock spring free. Gator feels shy suddenly as Keys just watches his dick flop against his stomach. It's not like Keys hasn't seen it before. Hell, technically he's already touched it a bit too, but that was in the context of them teaming up to fuck you. It feels completely different in this moment with just the two of them, Keys giving Gator his full focus.
Keys brings his hand up to his mouth and spits into his palm, then locks eyes with Gator as he reaches down to grab his shaft. Gator moans and immediately bucks up into Keys touch, pre cum leaking out of his tip already like he's back in middle school getting his first handjob.
"God, I love how responsive you are for me." Keys swipes his thumb over Gator's slit, smearing the mixture of saliva and cum over his cock as he slowly starts pumping Gator's cock with his hand.
"Yeah? That feel good?" Keys kisses the corner of Gator's mouth.
"Holy fuck, yeah." Gator stares at where Keys is gripping him, completely mesmerized by how his massive hand looks while it works him.
"I can't tell you how badly I wanted to do this last night." Keys gives Gator another wet, open mouthed kiss and hovers right above his lips. "Especially when you pulled out of her and this thick cock was glistening with both of your guys' cum. I wanted to see what you tasted like after getting soaked by that pretty pussy."
Gator's head spins at the downright obscene dirty talk coming out of Keys' mouth. He's fucked girls stupid plenty of times, but his own brain has never felt quite so scrambled as it does right now.
He wonders what else Keys' mouth can do. "Mmph…you can taste it now if you want."
Keys lets out a strangled noise and tightens his grip on Gator's cock briefly. "Shit, you sure? I didn't mean to pressure you."
Gator rolls his eyes, now understanding why Keys' gentle reassurance grinds your gears in the heat of the moment like this. "You ain't. Wanna see why that mouth of yours makes her go so crazy."
"Oh, that so?" Keys presses one last frantic kiss to Gator's lips and drags his mouth down Gator's body, licking and sucking on his skin as he goes. "So fucking sexy," he murmurs against Gator, the vibrations making his skin tingle.
Gators mouth falls open as Keys kisses along his hip bone and then drags his tongue up the underside of his cock before taking it all at once.
"Fuck, Keys." Gator throws his head back, completely consumed by how hot and wet this guy's mouth feels.
Keys reaches up and squeezes Gator's pec, releasing his dick with a wet pop. "Eyes on me."
Gator looks down just as Keys takes him back in his mouth and covers the hand resting on his chest with his own while running the other through Keys' messy, brown hair.
Keys wraps his free hand around Gator's thigh, effectively pinning him down with that sneaky strength of his while his head bobs up and down. Gator's heart races as the bottom of his spine tingles, the pleasure already building to its peak. With that came an intense feeling of being overwhelmed.
Gator's not sure if it was the newness of having a guy being the one sucking him off or if the intimacy of this entire moment with Keys was just too much, all he knew was that he wanted him close again.
"Keys," he grunts. "Shit…come back up here, please."
Keys releases Gator from his mouth and climbs back over him, moving to hold his length in one hand and cradling Gator's jaw with the other. "You still good?"
"Yeah, don't stop." Gator grabs onto Keys shoulders. "I just…" He trails off, a brief flicker of shame realizing how pathetic he sounds right now.
Keys resumes jerking him off and rubs his thumb along his jaw. "What is it, baby? You can tell me."
Gator blinks, not fully wrapping his head around why the pet name that you've called him plenty of times feels just as good coming from Keys. Gator presses his mouth into a tight line and reminds himself that he's already had his dick in this guys' mouth. He's past the point of trying to hold on to the straight, tough guy persona.
"I just wanted t'kiss ya some more," he finally mumbles.
Gator braces himself for a smirk or smug smile, but instead Keys' face just softens into a look that could only be described as admiration. He dips his head down and slots his lips against Gator's. It's probably the softest kiss of the morning and makes Gator feel warm all over.
Keys breaks the kiss briefly to whisper. "I'll kiss you as much as you want, Gator." He pumps Gator's cock faster, who in turn moans into Keys' mouth. Keys swallows it with another kiss. "I wanna make you come. Tell me how I can get you there."
"Just keep doing that." Gator brings his hands to the back of Keys' head and pulls his mouth down to his own. Their lips move in sync with Keys' movements on Gator's cock, swirling their tongues around each other while Gator's stomach flips as he climbs towards his peak again.
He shivers despite the warmth of Keys' broad chest covering him and the wet, smacking noises of Keys' hand pumping up and down his shaft fills the air. Gator bucks into Keys' hand again when his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, collecting another bead of precum.
"You getting close?" Keys asks in between kisses. "Shit, your cock feels so warm and heavy in my hand."
Gator's balls tighten and he pulls on Keys' hair. "Oh fuck…yeah I'm close." He presses his forehead to Keys'. "Christ, how're you so good at this on the first try?"
"Are you forgetting I got one of these too?" Keys laughs and grinds his own erection against Gator's thigh as a reminder. "Plus, I also paid attention to how she gets you off…dreaming of possibly getting my hands on you some day."
The realization that Keys doesn't just watch you closely, but also Gator and is aroused at the idea of curating a pleasurable experience for him too, makes the pressure build again, hurtling Gator towards his release.
"Shit, I'm gonna come."
"Do it. Let me feel you." Keys kisses Gator again, tugging a little on his bottom lip. "I'm right here, baby. You're doing so good for me."
They're words Keys has said to you, and ones Gator has also said to both you and his partners before you. Never once did Gator ever think he'd want to be on the receiving end of them until now while he's in Keys' arms. They seem to activate a part of Gator's brain he didn't even know had been dormant, waiting for the right person to wake it up and give him a little bit of the praise he's been craving his whole life.
"Keys," Gator begs, though he's not sure for what.
"I know." Keys presses his lips to Gators and murmurs against them as he jerks his cock faster, "Come for me, Gator."
The band snaps and Gator cries out into Keys' mouth, hot ropes of his release spurting onto his stomach and chest. Keys slows his movements but keeps his hand on Gator's shaft until the latter whines from the overstimulation.
Keys pulls away to look at Gator's cum covered chest and splays his hand on it, spreading it around. He leans down and laps some of it up with his thick tongue before coming back up to kiss Gator, who's still in a daze coming down from his high.
When his mind clears a bit, Gator places a hand on Keys' chest and pushes him gently away to look at him when he realizes that he's still rock hard against Gator's thigh.
"Should I…I mean do you want me to, erm—" Gator clears his throat. "Y'know…do you now?"
"No. I want you to relax." Keys smiles and presses another soft kiss to his lips. "I should probably get some coffee up to our girl anyway and wake her up."
Gator snorts. "You really think she slept through all that?"
"She's a heavy sleeper." Keys brushes some of Gator's hair back, his eyes twinkling. "Trust me, if she was up, she would've come down to join in by now."
"Guess that's true." Gator's eyes drop to Keys' mouth, still thinking about how much he likes kissing this guy.
Keys apparently reads his mind and leans in for one more deep, tender kiss, nuzzling their noses together when he comes back up for air. "Why don't you go take a shower? I'll make us all breakfast."
All Gator can do is nod and climb off the couch with Keys, tucking himself back into his pants. As he pads into his room, he thinks about how caught off guard he is and not necessarily by the fact that he just let a dude jerk him off.
What's rattled Gator so much is how natural it felt being with Keys specifically. How he made Gator feel so cared for and that Gator is already thinking about all the things the three of you can now do together.
He's in deeper than he should be, but Gator's not so sure he's capable of untangling himself from you two anymore.
Summary: Tensions arise during a Targaryen family vacation, which prompts Daemon to step up as a husband and agree to relocating. See part 1 here. Warnings: family drama, humor, angst, fluff, smut.
a/n: Sorry it took me 2 weeks, here's a longer chapter, enjoy!
The truce, once struck, held.
The days that followed had a dreamlike quality to them, as if the storm that had raged on your third night had washed the animosity clean between you and Daemon. He was still Daemon: imperious, maddening, prone to making decisions with the casual arrogance, but there was a difference now. A mindfulness. He caught himself mid-sentence more than once, reeling back a sharp comment or a unilateral declaration. He asked your opinion on things. Small things, mostly: what time you wanted to eat, whether you preferred the beach or the pool, which excursion the boys might enjoy, but the asking itself felt monumental.
He touched you constantly. His hands were always on you. A palm pressed to the small of your back as you brushed your teeth. Fingers tracing the curve of your shoulder while you read on the balcony. His thigh pressed against yours under the breakfast table, a warm pressure that made it difficult to focus on your coffee. In the hotel room, with the boys safely occupied at the kids' club or asleep in the adjoining room, he was insatiable.
Mornings were spent tangled in sheets that smelled of salt and sex, afternoons where he'd pull you into the bathroom with a wicked glint in his eye and a finger pressed to his lips, evenings where he'd undress you with the same focused intensity he brought to boardroom negotiations, murmuring filthy promises against your skin until you forgot your own name.
"You're trying to fuck me into forgetting about the divorce," you accused him on the fifth morning, your voice still breathless, your legs still tangled with his.
Daemon propped himself on one elbow and looked down at you with an expression of pure, unrepentant satisfaction. "Is it working?"
"No."
"Then I'll have to try harder." He dipped his head to press a kiss to the hollow of your throat. "I'm a very determined man."
"Determined. Stubborn. Pathologically incapable of accepting defeat."
"They're also reasons you fell in love with me."
"Debatable."
But you were smiling, and he saw it.
"Give me a chance," he said quietly, all traces of teasing gone. "A real chance. That's all I'm asking."
You traced the line of his jaw with your fingertip, feeling the rasp of stubble, the warmth of his skin. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"Physically."
"Daemon."
"I know. I know you're still thinking about it. I know nothing is settled." He caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm. "But you're still here. In our bed. Letting me touch you. That's more than I deserve."
"It really is."
"I know." Another kiss, this time to your wrist. "I'm going to earn it. Every day. I'm going to earn you back."
The sincerity in his voice made your eyes sting. You blinked rapidly and pulled your hand free, swatting his shoulder with more affection than force. "You're getting sentimental in your old age."
"I'm getting smart in my old age. There's a difference."
"Is that what we're calling forty-three now? Old age?"
"Ancient. Decrepit. Practically in my dotage." He rolled on top of you, pinning you to the mattress with his weight, and grinned down at you with all the charm that had made you say yes to a second date years ago. "You'll have to take care of me in my declining years. Push my wheelchair. Feed me soup."
"I'll hire someone to do it."
"Wicked woman." He kissed you. "My wicked woman."
The days slipped by like beads on a string. Mornings at the beach, the boys shrieking with delight as Daemon tossed them into the waves, his laughter carrying across the water. Afternoons by the pool, Viserys napping in the shade while Aegon practiced his swimming with determination he inherited from both his parents. Evenings on the terrace, watching the sun sink in a blaze of orange and gold while the boys ate gelato and Daemon's hand rested on your thigh beneath the table.
It was, you had to admit, the closest thing to a real family vacation you'd had in years. Maybe ever. Daemon's feud with Alicent simmered on the back burner, contained to occasional sharp glances across the dinner table and one tense exchange about the resort's wine selection that was so aggressively polite it made Rhaenyra choke on her water.
Viserys the elder was in his element, presiding over meals like a benevolent king surveying his domain. Rhaenyra's boys ran wild with Aegon and little Viserys, a pack of children terrorizing the resort staff with the impunity of the very rich and very cute. Even Laenor seemed more relaxed, spending long hours on the water with the resort's sailing instructor while Rhaenyra read novels under an umbrella and pretended not to notice.
"See?" Daemon murmured in your ear on the sixth night, as you walked back to your suite with a sleeping Viserys drooping against his shoulder. "This is what it could be like. All the time."
"You mean you not picking fights with your sister-in-law?"
"I mean us. Together. A family."
You looked at Aegon, walking ahead of you with the particular swagger he'd picked up from his father, his silver hair still damp. "It's been a good week."
"It's been a perfect week."
"Perfect is a strong word."
"Perfect for us." He shifted Viserys to his other shoulder, freeing his hand to reach for yours. "I know we still have things to work through. I know I have a lot to make up for. But this..." He squeezed your fingers. "This is real. This is what I want. What I've always wanted, even when I was too much of an idiot to show it."
You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because he was right, it had been a good week, maybe even a perfect one, but you'd been here before. The cycle of tension and release, distance and reconciliation. Daemon's charm was a powerful force, and you'd spent years learning to be skeptical of it.
But you were still here. Still in his bed. Still letting him hold your hand.
What did that say about you?
The seventh day dawned bright and cloudless. You woke to find Daemon already awake, propped against the headboard with his tablet, scrolling through emails with a faint frown.
"Work?" you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.
"The Ashford deal. Viserys wants me to present to the board when we get back." He set the tablet aside and turned to you, his frown dissolving into something softer. "Good morning."
"Morning." You stretched, feeling the pleasant ache in your muscles from the previous night's activities. "What time is it?"
"Early. The boys are still asleep." His hand found your hip beneath the sheets. "We have time."
"We have time for what, exactly?"
His smile was answer enough.
Later, you joined the rest of the family for brunch on the terrace. The long table was laden with fresh fruit, pastries, silver chafing dishes full of eggs, smoked fish and other delicacies you'd learned to take for granted during your marriage to a Targaryen.
Rhaenyra was already seated, nursing a mimosa with the air of a woman who had been up since dawn with three energetic children. Laenor was beside her, looking slightly greenish. Too much port the night before, if you had to guess. Viserys was at the head of the table, deep in conversation with one of his advisors who had flown in for some reason you couldn't be bothered to inquire about.
And Alicent was watching you.
You felt her gaze before you saw it, that particular prickling awareness of being observed. She was seated at Viserys' right hand, her posture impeccable, her auburn hair swept back in an elegant chignon. Her dress was pale green. Her expression was pleasant, perfectly composed, the mask of a woman who had spent years learning to hide her true feelings behind a veneer of graciousness.
But her eyes were cold.
You'd grown accustomed to Alicent's subtle hostility over the years. It was one of the constants of Targaryen family gatherings, like Viserys' long-winded toasts or the way Rhaenyra's children always managed to break something valuable. Alicent had never liked you, you'd accepted that early on, but her dislike had always been of the passive-aggressive variety. Pointed questions about your career that were really comments about your lack of family connections. Compliments that were actually insults, delivered with such sweetness that you couldn't call them out without looking paranoid and rude. The kind of low-grade, deniable hostility that wore you down over time without ever giving you a clear target to push back against.
So when you took your seat and Alicent smiled at you with that particular tightness around her eyes, you braced yourself for whatever was coming.
"Good morning," Alicent said, her voice as smooth as honey. "You look well-rested. I'm glad someone is sleeping well on this trip."
"Thank you," you said cautiously. "The beds are very comfortable."
"I wouldn't know. I've been up since five dealing with a situation in the Hong Kong office." She sighed delicately, as if the weight of international business was a personal cross she bore with saintly patience. "But I suppose you wouldn't have to worry about that sort of thing, would you? Daemon handles all the difficult matters, I'm sure."
It was a small barb, almost invisible. You felt it prick anyway.
"Daemon handles the business side of things," you agreed, keeping your voice even. "I have my own work to keep me busy."
"Of course. Your little consultancy. How is that going, by the way? I remember you had some difficulties last year with funding."
The difficulties she was referring to had been a temporary cash flow issue, resolved within a month, that you'd mentioned in passing at a family dinner nearly eighteen months ago. That she remembered it now, and chose to bring it up, was not an accident.
"It's going very well, thank you," you said. "We've expanded the team and taken on several new clients. I'm actually considering opening a second office."
"How ambitious." Alicent's smile didn't waver. "It must be nice, having the freedom to pursue your own interests. Some of us have to devote ourselves to family obligations."
The implication was clear: you were selfish. Neglectful. A mother who prioritized her career over her children, her independence over her husband's needs. Never mind that Daemon had always supported your work, that he'd been the one to encourage you to start your consultancy in the first place. Never mind that Alicent herself had built a career out of managing her husband's business interests, that she spent more time in boardrooms than you ever had. The rules were different for her, apparently.
Or maybe the rules were different because she resented the choice she'd made or been forced to make, and couldn't stand to see you thriving outside the gilded cage she'd been locked into.
"Family obligations are important," you said, reaching for a pastry with a steadiness you didn't quite feel. "But I've always believed that children benefit from seeing their parents pursue their passions. Aegon and Viserys know that their mother values her work. I think that's a good thing."
"Mm." Alicent's hum was noncommittal. "Although I imagine it's easier to pursue one's passions when one has the Targaryen name and resources to fall back on. Your consultancy doesn't have to succeed, does it? It's more of a...hobby. A charming little project."
The word 'hobby' landed like a slap. You felt heat rise to your cheeks and forced yourself to take a slow breath before responding.
"My consultancy supports employees and their families," you said, your voice cooler now. "It generates significant revenue. It's hardly a hobby."
"Oh, I didn't mean to offend." Alicent's eyes widened with practiced innocence. "I only meant that you have the luxury of taking risks. Not all of us are so fortunate. Some of us have to think about the family's reputation, the family's legacy. We can't all afford to be so...independent."
The word hung in the air, dripping with disdain. Independent. As if your autonomy was a character flaw. As if the fact that you'd built something of your own, outside the Targaryen empire, was somehow shameful.
You opened your mouth to respond. to say what, you weren't sure, but Daemon's hand closed over yours beneath the table, stopping you.
"Speaking of the family's reputation," he said, his voice carrying that particular edge that always preceded blood in the water, "I heard the most interesting thing about your father's latest venture, Alicent. The shipping company? The one that just happened to receive a very generous contract from Targaryen Holdings?"
Alicent's mask flickered, just for a moment. "My father's business dealings are hardly appropriate brunch conversation."
"No? I find them fascinating. The timing, especially. How long was it between Otto acquiring his stake and the contract being awarded? Three weeks? Four?" Daemon smiled maliciously. "You must be very proud. It's not every day a minor shipping concern gets that kind of opportunity. Nepotism is such an ugly word, but in this case, one might argue it's the only word that fits."
"Daemon," Viserys said warningly from the head of the table.
"I'm just making conversation, brother. Alicent was so interested in my wife's work, I thought she might want to discuss her own family's business practices." He picked up his coffee cup with the air of a man without a care in the world. "Fair's fair, after all."
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife. Rhaenyra was studying the bottom of her mimosa glass with intense concentration. Laenor had suddenly discovered a fascinating cloud formation on the horizon. Even the children, sensing the tension, had gone quiet.
Alicent's gaze flicked from Daemon to you, and hatred passed behind her eyes.
"Of course," she said, her voice so tight it was nearly a whisper. "Fair is fair."
She didn't speak to you for the rest of brunch.
"You didn't have to do that," you said later, when you were back in the suite, the boys occupied with their tablets, the door to the bedroom closed. "I can fight my own battles."
Daemon was standing by the window, his back to you, his shoulders tense. "I know you can."
"Then why did you?"
He turned. The mask was gone now and what remained was a fury so pure it was almost beautiful. "Because she had no right. No right to speak to you that way. To dismiss your work, your accomplishments, as if they meant nothing. As if you were nothing."
"She's been doing it for years. It's nothing new."
"Then I should have stopped her years ago." He crossed the room, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a gentleness that belied the fire in his eyes. "I've let too many things slide. I've been too wrapped up in my own battles to notice the ones you've been fighting alone. But I notice now. And I'm not going to let anyone...anyone...treat you with disrespect. Not Alicent. Not my brother. Not the whole bloody board of directors."
"Daemon..."
"She called your work a hobby. A hobby." He spat the word like a curse. "You have a doctorate. You built a business from the ground up. You've published papers in journals she couldn't even spell the names of. And she sits there with her stolen influence and her father's schemes and dares to condescend to you?"
"I'm used to it."
"You shouldn't have to be." His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm on your lips. "You are worth ten of her. A hundred. You are brilliant and fierce and so bloody stubborn it drives me mad, and I will not stand by while some social-climbing hypocrite tries to make you feel small."
Your throat was tight. "I thought we agreed you weren't going to antagonize her."
"That was before she came after you." His eyes were blazing. "The truce extends to business. It does not extend to my wife's dignity. Or my children's mother. Or my family's honor." He kissed you hard and fast. "She wants to play these games, she can play them with me. But she will not use you as her punching bag. Not anymore."
You should have argued. You should have reminded him that making enemies of Alicent would only make things harder, that the family politics were already precarious enough, that you didn't need him fighting your battles for you.
But he was looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion, and you were so tired of being the bigger person, of swallowing insults and smiling through passive-aggressive digs.
"Fine," you said. "But if you're going to defend my honor, at least try not to start a corporate civil war in the process."
"I make no promises."
"Daemon."
"I make limited promises. Very limited. Barely any promises at all." He pulled back, his expression shifting from fury to calculating. "Besides, she started it. I'm just...finishing it."
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be." He kissed your forehead. "Now. I believe we have a few hours before dinner, the boys are occupied, and I seem to recall making you a promise this morning about what I was going to do to you the moment we had privacy."
"You're trying to distract me."
"Is it working?"
Against your better judgment, you felt your lips twitch toward a smile. "Maybe."
"Good." His hands slid down to your hips, pulling you against him. "Because I meant what I said. Every word. You are the best thing that ever happened to me, and I've been an idiot not to show it. But that changes now. Starting with Alicent, and continuing with anyone else who thinks they can treat you as less than what you are."
"And what am I?"
"Magnificent," he murmured against your lips. "Absolutely bloody magnificent."
The eighth day brought tension.
You noticed it first at breakfast, when Alicent's eyes swept over you with a new expression, not the usual cold disdain but calculating. As if yesterday's exchange had shifted something fundamental, and she was reassessing her approach.
You braced yourself for more passive-aggressive comments, more honeyed insults dressed up as concern. But Alicent was perfectly polite. Almost too polite. She asked about the boys, complimented your sundress, even inquired about your consultancy with what appeared to be genuine interest.
It was unsettling.
"She's plotting something," Rhaenyra murmured, appearing at your elbow as you watched the children splash in the pool. "I know that look. She gets it right before she makes a move."
"What kind of move?"
"I don't know. But be careful." Rhaenyra's violet eyes, so like Daemon's, were serious. "Alicent doesn't lose gracefully. And Daemon humiliated her at brunch. She won't forget that."
"I didn't ask him to do that."
"I know. But it doesn't matter. In her mind, you're a package deal." Rhaenyra sighed. "It's exhausting, isn't it? The constant maneuvering. The endless drama. Sometimes I think I should just take the boys and Laenor and move to a remote island somewhere. No Targaryens allowed."
"Would Harwin be allowed?"
"He's an honorary Targaryen by now. He's earned it. But he'd also be the first to agree to the no-Targaryens rule." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Be careful," she repeated. "And tell Daemon to be careful too. He thinks he's untouchable, but Alicent has been building her power base for years. She's not as weak as he wants to believe."
The storm broke on the ninth day.
You'd known it was coming but you hadn't expected it to happen at a family luncheon, in front of a dozen people, with the sunlight streaming through the windows and the sound of the ocean in the background.
It started innocently enough. Viserys made some comment about the family's legacy, about the importance of unity and tradition. Alicent had nodded along, her expression one of perfect wifely agreement.
"Of course, legacy means different things to different people," she said, her voice carrying that particular sweetness that always preceded something unpleasant. "For some of us, it's about duty and sacrifice. For others..." She let the sentence trail off, her gaze flicking to you.
Daemon's hand tightened on his wine glass. "For others?"
"Oh, I don't mean anything by it. Only that some people come to this family with a different understanding of what it means to be a Targaryen." She smiled at you. "No offense, my dear. I'm sure your background has given you a unique perspective. Your parents were hard workers, weren't they? So admirable. So...humble."
The word 'humble' was delivered with the same inflection she might have used for 'contagious.'
"It's true," you said, keeping your voice level. "They valued education and hard work. I'm very proud of them."
"Oh, as you should be. It's just that some families have a different kind of history. The Hightowers, for instance, have been serving the realm, metaphorically speaking, for generations. It's a different kind of upbringing. A different set of expectations."
Daemon opened his mouth, but you put your hand on his arm, stopping him. This was your battle. You'd let him fight it yesterday, but today was different. Today, Alicent had crossed a line she didn't even seem to realize was there.
"You're right," you said, and something in your tone made the entire table go quiet. "Our upbringings were different. My parents taught me that a person's worth comes from their character and their actions, not from their name or their ancestors. They taught me to judge people by what they do, not by what family they were born into."
Alicent's smile flickered. "I didn't mean..."
"And you're also right that I came to this family as an outsider. I didn't grow up with wealth or privilege. Everything I have, I earned. My education, my career, my reputation." You leaned forward slightly, holding her gaze. "So when I speak about legacy, I'm not talking about inheriting something from people who died centuries ago. I'm talking about building something. Creating something. Leaving something behind that's actually yours."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Alicent's face had gone very still. You'd hit a nerve, maybe the nerve. Because for all her talk of legacy and tradition, what had Alicent actually built? She'd married into power. She'd leveraged her father's connections. She'd maneuvered and schemed and positioned herself, but at the end of the day, her influence was borrowed. Secondhand. Dependent entirely on her husband's willingness to indulge her.
You, on the other hand, had built something real. Something that would exist even if you walked away from the Targaryen name tomorrow.
And she knew it.
"Well," Viserys said, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I think we can all agree that family is important, in all its forms. Perhaps we should move on to dessert."
Daemon cornered you in the hallway outside the restroom ten minutes later.
"That," he said, backing you against the wall with a look that was equal parts pride and hunger, "was the most attractive thing I have ever seen."
"I probably shouldn't have said it."
"You absolutely should have said it. You should say it again. Louder. I want to record it and play it at the next board meeting." His hands were on your waist, his body pressing against yours in a way that was decidedly inappropriate for a public hallway. "The look on her face. Gods. I'm going to remember that look for the rest of my life."
"Daemon, someone could walk by."
"Let them." He kissed your neck. "Let them see. Let them all see. My wife, the Hightower-slayer. My brilliant, terrifying, magnificent wife."
"I didn't slay her. I just pointed out the obvious."
"You gutted her. With words. In front of everyone." He pulled back, his eyes gleaming with awe. "Do you know how long I've been trying to do that? Years. Decades. And you managed it in thirty seconds."
"She started it."
"She did. And you finished it." He kissed you properly then, deep and thorough, his hands tightening on your waist. "I have never wanted you more than I do right now."
"Daemon!"
"Say we'll leave early. Say we'll go back to the room and I can show you exactly how much I appreciate you."
"People are waiting for dessert."
"Sod dessert." His voice dropped to a murmur against your ear. "Come with me. Please."
The 'please' did it. it was the last day of the vacation anyway.
The realtor, a nervous woman named Patricia with a helmet of honey-blonde hair, fumbled with the lockbox on the iron gate. You watched her with the placid, predatory patience of a well-fed cat, your arm linked through Daemon’s. His bespoke charcoal suit was a bastion of brutalist elegance against the quaint, tree-lined street of Queen Visenya's Hill. He had promised you he'd agree to moving away from Targaryen ancestral manor and now he was fulfilling it.
“Now, this is a classic Federal-style townhouse,” Patricia chirped, finally conquering the lock. “Original crown moldings, a chef’s kitchen, and four bedrooms on the upper floors. The lower level has a separate entrance, perfect for live-in staff, a nanny suite, or a very private home office.”
Daemon hummed. “A very private home office,” he murmured, his lips near your temple. “Think of the nefarious plotting I could get up to.”
“You can plot nefariously in any room, darling. You once orchestrated a hostile takeover of a biotech firm from our en-suite water closet,” you reminded him, your tone one of fond reminiscence.
The interior was a study in desperate neutrality; walls painted a shade of beige so profoundly bland it felt aggressive. “Kill-me-now greige,” you diagnosed quietly. Patricia’s smile tightened, but she soldiered on, leading you through a parlor with a fireplace that she promised was “original to the 1840s.”
Daemon ran a finger over the mantle, inspected the pad of his fingertip for dust, and found none. He gave a single, slow blink of approval. “Acceptable bone structure,” he declared. “Nothing a therapeutic dose of color and the removal of that light fixture couldn’t cure.” He gestured with his chin toward a chandelier that looked like a tumbleweed had gotten into a fight with a box of crystals. “It looks like something Alicent Hightower would choose if she was suddenly possessed by the spirit of a disco ball.”
A snort escaped you before you could stop it. “Don’t be so unkind to disco balls. They, at least, have a purpose. I heard she’s redoing the Hightower’s vacation house in the Summer Isles using only shades of ‘seafoam’ and ‘driftwood.’ The entire place will look like a memorial for a dead mermaid.”
“A tacky dead mermaid,” Daemon amended. “With a penchant for jute rugs.”
Patricia, wisely, said nothing, just gestured toward the grand staircase. As you ascended, you continued your post-mortem of your social circle. The realtor’s hushed commentary about “natural light” and “updated plumbing” was just the backing track to your own, far more entertaining conversation.
“I think the Laenor situation is settled, by the way,” Daemon said as he opened a closet door on the landing, peered inside, and shut it. “He’s bought a villa, as far from Corlys’ shipping empire as physically possible.”
“Good for him,” you said, and meant it. “The only interesting thing about the Velaryons was always their money, and even that’s managed with a kind of tedious nobility. Speaking of tedious nobility, did you see the engagement announcement from Jason Lannister? Fifth time’s the charm, apparently. The fiancée’s photo looked like a hostage situation.”
“Every photo with a Lannister is a hostage situation,” Daemon replied smoothly, his hand finding the small of your back and guiding you into the primary suite. It was a grand room with a bow window overlooking a walled garden. “Better,” he stated. It was the highest praise he’d given a room all week.
“And…the children?” Patricia finally ventured, sensing an opening. “The two secondary bedrooms on this floor are wonderfully proportioned for young boys. Lots of closet space.”
You exchanged a look with Daemon, a silent, private conversation spoken in the minute language of long-term, slightly-bitchy intimacy. He raised an eyebrow; you gave a microscopic shrug. It was your call.
“Toys,” you said, turning back to Patricia, your diamonds flashing in the afternoon sun. “Not children. The bedrooms will be for their toys.”
Patricia’s mouth opened and closed. “I…toys?”
“Yes. Our sons, Aegon and Viserys, have a very serious collection of miniature dragon figurines that require their own climate-controlled habitat,” you explained, as if discussing a minor Picasso collection. “And the younger one has developed an obsession with building train sets that, according to our current nanny, are achieving ‘sentience.’ They need space to sprawl. The children merely camp out with them.”
Daemon drifted toward the window, looking down at the garden, but you knew he was listening, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The memory of your early, more volatile days was an old, familiar ghost. He’d proposed after three months, a fierce, sudden, and wholly terrifying event involving a vintage ring, his grandmother’s, not the one from the Royce fiasco, and a declaration that you’d “ruined him for sensible conversation.” You’d made him wait three years, a purgatory he’d endured with ill grace and extravagant, guilt-inducing gifts. You’d needed proof that the Daemon Targaryen who was a walking PR disaster, with one annulment for “unconsummated barrenness” and a broken-off engagement to a girl barely out of college, was not the same man who now looked at you like you’d personally hung the moon beside his credit rating. The birth of Aegon, and then Viserys eleven months later, had been your final, non-negotiable statement.
“This is a separate floor for staff, you said?” you called to Patricia, already gliding out of the room to inspect the lower level. Daemon followed, a silent, supportive storm cloud at your shoulder. The stairs led to a compact, smartly designed apartment with its own kitchenette, a bedroom, a small living area, and a private street entrance.
“Perfect for a maid and Carwyn,” Daemon murmured, referring to his ancient, ill-tempered butler who had been with the family since before his birth, or at least since Jaehaerys' administration. “He can polish the silver and plot my brother’s ruin in total isolation.”
You walked through the small, empty rooms, your heels clicking a decisive rhythm on the hardwood. No more penthouse you were currently staying at after hastily moving out of the manor. No more elevator rides with the tiresome Mrs. Redwyne from 14B, who wanted to circulate yet another petition about the contentious football field. No more forced pleasantries with the HOA president whose name you refused to learn. Here, you could have Greta, your terrifying maid, ensconced on the ground floor, a silent guardian against intruders and door-to-door solicitors. Here, your world would be self-contained, vertical, and utterly under your own control.
You stopped in the center of the empty living area and turned to face your husband. The afternoon light caught the silver-gold of his hair, the sharp, aristocratic planes of his face that time and fatherhood had only made more severe and, annoyingly, more attractive.
“Well?” he asked.
You looked from the polished nickel of the kitchen faucet to the clean, unblemished lines of the walls. It was a blank canvas, a fortress of potential. You thought of Alicent’s doomed seafoam nightmare. You thought of the Velaryons’ gilded, boring perfection. This could be yours, a monument to your own exacting, impeccable taste.
“We’ll gut the kitchen, of course,” you said, a slow, razor-sharp smile spreading across your face. “And I want the entire primary suite soundproofed. For Aegon’s violin practice.”
Daemon’s answering smile was a flash of pure, wicked delight. He turned to the realtor, who had clearly witnessed more than she’d bargained for. “Patricia, darling,” he purred, pulling his checkbook from his inside pocket with a practiced flourish. “Let’s not be tedious about the asking price. We have a football-field-free future to secure, and I’m suddenly desperate to get home and make a generous donation to the local homeowners’ association that strictly forbids recreational centers.”
Patricia, to her credit, had the good sense to look mildly terrified when Daemon produced his checkbook. It was leather-bound, monogrammed with his initials in silver, and it had the same effect on real estate agents that a bloodied steak had on a shark. Her pupils dilated. Her breathing shallowed. She was already calculating her commission, mentally redecorating her own little condo in a palette that wasn't "despair and deferred maintenance."
You, however, placed a perfectly manicured hand on your husband's wrist. The hand that held the checkbook. The hand that was attached to the man who had, on your third date, tried to buy you a minor league baseball team because you'd offhandedly mentioned the mascot was "marginally amusing."
"Darling," you said, your voice a silk-wrapped ice pick. "We are not making an offer on the first acceptable property. What would that say about us?"
Daemon paused, his pen hovering over the check. "That we are decisive, impeccably tasteful, and terrifyingly efficient?"
"That we're desperate," you corrected, plucking the pen from his fingers. "And we are never desperate. We are the opposite of desperate. We are the people other people are desperate to impress. Patricia," you added, turning to the realtor, who flinched as if you'd pointed a weapon at her, "we'll be in touch. We have others to see."
"Others?" Patricia's voice cracked. "I wasn't aware there were others on the schedule."
"There are now," Daemon said, tucking his checkbook back into his jacket with the air of a man who had just been denied a small but satisfying murder. "We'll require something with more…character. This has good bones, but it's been sanitized within an inch of its life. I felt like I was touring a mausoleum designed by a committee of accountants."
"A mausoleum with excellent natural light," you added, because you were not a monster. "Thank you for that. Do send us the updated listings by end of day. And Patricia? The next property we see should not look as though it's been staged by someone whose only reference for interior design is a catalog for people who've given up on joy."
Patricia nodded, a jerky, marionette-like motion, and you swept out of the townhouse with Daemon's hand resting on the small of your back, his thumb tracing small circles against the silk of your blouse. Behind you, you heard her exhale for what sounded like the first time in an hour.
"That was cruel," Daemon murmured as you descended the front steps to the waiting car, a sleek black Mercedes that your younger son had christened "the Batmobile" and which Carwyn, Daemon's butler, maintained with a religious fervor usually reserved for holy relics. "I liked it very much. You're magnificent when you're withholding."
"I'm always magnificent," you said, sliding into the leather interior. "Sometimes I'm just magnificent in more obvious ways."
The partition between the front and back seats was already raised. By the time Daemon settled beside you, Carwyn was pulling smoothly into traffic, his ancient, liver-spotted hands steady on the wheel. He had been with the Targaryen family since before Daemon was born, a cadaverous Welshman with the disposition of a rainy funeral and the unshakeable loyalty of a man who had seen everything and judged all of it harshly.
"Home, sir? Madam?" Carwyn's voice crackled through the intercom.
"For now," Daemon said. "We'll be going out again. My wife has decided we need to see 'others.'"
A pause. Then: "Very good, sir. Shall I prepare a list of suitable alternatives, or will Madam be handling the selection personally?"
"The latter, Carwyn," you said. "But your discretion is, as always, appreciated."
"Of course, Madam." The intercom clicked off, and you could practically hear the old man's silent approval. Carwyn had been skeptical of you at first, back when you were merely the woman who had somehow convinced the most notoriously unmarriageable Targaryen to wait three years for an answer. He had watched you with the gimlet eye of a palace guard assessing a potential assassin. But you had won him over eventually, partly through your treatment of Daemon, which was affectionate but never indulgent, and partly through your treatment of the household staff, which was demanding but never cruel. The maid, Greta, had once confided that Carwyn considered you "the best of the lot," which, given that the previous contenders included a woman Daemon had literally fled on horseback during their wedding night (or so family legend claimed) and a university student he'd been engaged to for approximately fifteen minutes before she came to her senses, was not as high a bar as it sounded.
"Tell me about the others," Daemon said, his hand finding your knee. His wedding band glinted in the afternoon light, a simple platinum circle.
You pulled out your phone, scrolling through the listings Patricia had sent over the previous week. The townhouse on Queen Visenya's Hill had been promising. Secluded entrance, staff quarters on a separate floor, no shared walls with neighbors who wanted to discuss "community initiatives" and "resident input." But it had been too…finished. Too eager to please. You wanted a project, something you could shape into a weapon pointed directly at the heart of everyone who had ever doubted you.
"There's a converted carriage house near Baelor's Sept," you said, reading off your phone. "Four bedrooms, original exposed brick, a courtyard garden that's completely invisible from the street."
"Too small," Daemon said immediately. "Where would we put the dragons? The collection. Aegon's figurines. Viserys' trains. They need space to breathe. The nanny says the train set has started developing a rudimentary signaling system. She's afraid it'll unionise."
You snorted, a most unladylike sound that you would never have permitted in front of anyone but Daemon. "The day Viserys' trains unionise is the day we're officially failing as parents. He's four. He should be teaching them the value of hierarchical authority, not collective bargaining."
"I'll have a word with him. 'Son,'" Daemon intoned, deepening his voice to a parody of paternal gravitas, "'while I applaud your initiative in creating a miniature worker's cooperative, I must remind you that the Targaryens have always been management, never labour. Your great-great-grandfather didn't conquer seven kingdoms just so you could negotiate with a Thomas the Tank Engine.'"
"Thomas is management," you pointed out. "He's the face of the operation. Sir Topham Hatt is clearly the owner of the means of production."
"Gods, I love you." Daemon said it the way other people commented on the weather: matter-of-fact, slightly bored, utterly sincere. "You're the only person I've ever met who can make Marxist analysis of children's television sound like pillow talk."
"Flatterer." You leaned into him, your shoulder pressing against his. The car hummed beneath you, carrying you through streets lined with cherry trees that were just beginning to think about blooming. Spring in the capital was tentative, suspicious, winter always threatening to come roaring back like an unwelcome relative who'd forgotten their medication. But today was warm enough, bright enough, that you could almost believe the season was sincere.
"What about the other Federal-style?" Daemon asked. "The one with the ballroom?"
"The ballroom that the previous owners converted into a home theater," you said, making a face. "With reclining seats upholstered in what appeared to be the skin of a murdered Muppet. No. I refuse to inherit someone else's crimes against taste."
"It could be restored."
"It could be exorcised, which is what it would require. I'm fairly certain the ghost of Jim Henson would haunt us. And he'd be right to."
The car slowed, turning into the underground garage of the building. The penthouse took up an entire floor, a sprawling glass-and-steel aerie with views and the sort of security that required retinal scans and a man named Dimitri who had, according to Daemon, "a very particular set of skills." You had loved it once, had reveled in the sheer improbable luxury of it, the way you could stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows and feel like you owned the city. But that was before Mrs. Redwyne. Before the football field debate. Before you'd realized that living in a building with other people meant occasionally having to acknowledge that other people existed.
Carwyn parked the Mercedes in its designated spot, next to Daemon's Aston Martin (weekend car) and your Range Rover (mom car, though you refused to call it that, preferring "tactical transport for the heirs"). The elevator ride to the penthouse was swift and silent.
"We're home!" Daemon called out, his voice echoing through the open-plan living space. "Alert the media. Prepare the fatted calf."
There was a patter of small feet, and then a blur of silver-blond hair launched itself at Daemon's legs. "Daddy!" Aegon, already possessed of his father's talent for dramatic entrances, wrapped himself around Daemon's knees with the tenacity of a barnacle. "Did you buy a house? Did you buy a house with a pool? Viserys said you wouldn't buy a house with a pool because pools are 'an insurance nightmare,' but I told him he doesn't know what he's talking about because he's only four."
"Viserys said what?" You exchanged a look with Daemon over Aegon's head. "Who taught him the phrase 'insurance nightmare'?"
"Carwyn," Aegon said promptly, betraying the butler without a second thought. "He said it when I asked if we could get a trampoline. He said trampolines are an insurance nightmare and also an orthopedic one, and then he said something in Welsh that I'm pretty sure was a swear."
"Carwyn!" Daemon bellowed, but there was no heat in it. "Stop teaching our children to be risk-averse!"
From somewhere deeper in the penthouse, a dry voice drifted back: "Someone must, sir. It certainly won't be you."
"What does that mean?" Aegon asked.
"Nothing you need to repeat in front of your grandmother," Daemon said.
You left them to their father-son bonding and went in search of your younger child, finding Viserys in the playroom, surrounded by what could only be described as a transportation infrastructure project of staggering ambition. Train tracks looped and spiraled across every available surface, climbing over furniture and disappearing into tunnels made of picture books. In the center of it all sat Viserys, a chubby four-year-old with the concentrated frown of a dictator reviewing his five-year plan.
"Mama," he said, not looking up from the complicated switching mechanism he was manipulating. "The Number 7 express is running behind schedule. There's been a derailment near the crayon box."
"Casualties?" you asked, stepping carefully over a bridge that appeared to be constructed from Duplo blocks and sheer willpower.
"Minimal. But the passengers are becoming restless." He finally looked up, his violet eyes, Daemon's eyes, exactly Daemon's eyes, solemn and slightly accusatory. "You were gone a long time. Did you buy a house?"
"We're considering our options," you said, lowering yourself onto a tufted ottoman that had somehow escaped the train takeover. "There was a promising townhouse, but it wasn't quite right."
"Did it have a yard?"
"A small garden. And a separate floor for Greta and Carwyn."
Viserys considered this. "So they wouldn't have to ride in the elevator with the football lady anymore?"
"The football lady," you repeated, making a mental note to have another conversation with Carwyn about appropriate topics of discussion with preschoolers. "Yes, that was part of the appeal."
"Good," Viserys said, with the finality of a judge handing down a verdict. "She was very loud. She said the football field would 'build community,' but I don't want community. I want trains."
"My sweet boy," you said, reaching out to smooth his silver-blond hair. "You have no idea how much I agree with you."
An hour later, the children had been bathed (by Greta, who accomplished this task with the efficiency of a military operation and the warmth of a glacier), fed (by Carwyn, who believed that children's palates should be educated early and who had taught both boys to appreciate a proper Welsh rarebit), and tucked into their respective beds with their respective menageries of stuffed animals. You had changed out of your house-hunting ensemble, a Dior blazer, tailored trousers, the pearls Daemon had given you on your wedding day, and into softer clothes, a cashmere lounge set that made your skin look luminous. Daemon, similarly divested of his armor, was sprawled on the sectional in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand and a tablet in the other.
"Patricia sent more listings," he said as you settled beside him. "She's very eager. It's slightly pathetic."
"It's entirely pathetic but I respect the hustle." You took the tablet from him, scrolling through the properties. They all blurred together after a while: red brick, white columns, gourmet kitchens with islands the size of small countries, primary suites with walk-in closets that could house a family of four. You'd seen so many versions of the same house that they'd started to feel interchangeable, like a chorus line of acceptable-but-uninspiring options. "Nothing," you said after a moment, setting the tablet aside. "They're all so…done. Finished. Ready for someone to move in and immediately start planning their next dinner party for people they secretly hate."
"That's exactly what we would do," Daemon pointed out.
"Yes, but we'd do it in a space we'd made our own. These houses belong to other people's taste. Other people's choices. I don't want to live in someone else's mistake."
Daemon was silent for a moment, swirling the whiskey in his glass. The ice clinked softly, the only sound besides the distant hum of the city outside. "You know," he said finally, "when you talk about other people's mistakes, you get a particular look. It's the same look you got when we first met. At that party. Do you remember?"
Of course you remembered. The party had been hosted by a friend of a friend of a lab partner, someone whose name you'd forgotten before the evening was over, a blur of expensive canapés and people with their noses turned up. You'd been invited as a congratulatory gesture, a nod to your recent defense, a chance to "network" in a world so far removed from academia that it might as well have been another planet. You'd worn a dress you'd bought on clearance and shoes that pinched, and you'd spent the first hour hovering near the bar, nursing a glass of wine and wondering how quickly you could escape without seeming rude.
And then Daemon Targaryen had materialized at your elbow, fresh from the wreckage of his engagement to Laena Velaryon, a scandal that had been dissected in every society page and gossip blog for months. He'd looked like a portrait of aristocratic ruin: devastatingly handsome, impeccably dressed, and radiating the kind of danger that sensible women spent their lives learning to avoid.
"You're the only person here who looks as miserable as I feel," he'd said. "Shall we be miserable together, or would you prefer to maintain a respectful distance from the evening's designated pariah?"
"I don't know," you'd said, surprising yourself with your own audacity. "Are you actually a pariah, or are you just playing one for the attention?"
He'd laughed, a sound that seemed to catch him off guard as much as it did you. "Both, probably. I excel at both."
"I've heard that about you."
"All terrible things, I hope."
"Terrible and numerous." You'd taken a sip of your wine, regarding him over the rim of the glass. "They say you left your first wife on your wedding night. Fled on horseback. Very gothic."
"An exaggeration. I left the morning after. And it was a motorcycle, not a horse. More modern. More dignified."
"And the fiancée? Laena Velaryon?"
Pain had flickered behind his eyes, either out of anger or damage, not shame. "Laena," he'd said carefully, "is a lovely girl who realized, about six weeks into our engagement, that she didn't actually want to marry a decade older man who was still technically married to someone else. It was a moment of clarity that I wish I'd had first. It would have saved us both a great deal of trouble."
"How magnanimous of you."
"Is it? I thought I was being honest. I'm told that's not my strong suit."
"It's not," you'd agreed. "But you're doing all right so far."
He'd looked at you then carefully. "You just finished your doctorate, I've heard," he'd said.
"Last week. Hence the party. Hence the wine. Hence my imminent escape."
"Don't escape yet," he'd said, and his voice had dropped, lower and more intimate, the voice of a man who was used to getting what he wanted but who, in this moment, was asking rather than demanding. "Stay. Be miserable with me. I promise I'll make it worth your while."
And he had. Not that night, you'd excused yourself after another hour, refusing his offer of a ride home, refusing his offer of dinner the following evening, refusing everything until you'd had time to look him up properly and catalogue every single one of his romantic disasters.
A quick annulment from a wife he'd barely touched. A string of affairs with women whose names you recognized from magazine covers. An engagement to a twenty-year-old that had imploded so spectacularly that the tabloids were still running retrospectives. By any rational measure, Daemon Targaryen was the worst possible choice for a woman who had just spent years earning a degree that proved she was excellent at making good decisions.
But he'd called. And texted. And sent flowers, not the generic roses you'd expected, but a bizarre and charming arrangement of succulents and air plants that had arrived with a card reading, "These seemed more your speed. Low-maintenance. Self-sufficient. Impossible to kill. -D." You'd put them on your desk and found yourself smiling every time you looked at them.
He'd taken you to dinner three weeks later to an exclusive restaurant. You'd ordered the tasting menu and argued about politics, and he'd listened when you talked about your research, asking questions that proved he'd actually been paying attention. By the end of the night, you'd revised your assessment of him from "dangerous" to "dangerous but interesting," which was, you realized in retrospect, the first step on a very slippery slope.
"Of course I remember," you said now, in the living room of the penthouse you were preparing to leave. "You were wearing a Tom Ford suit and an expression of existential ennui. I thought you were the most ridiculous person I'd ever met."
"Really?"
"Now I know for a fact you're the most ridiculous person I've ever met. I have more evidence."
He set his whiskey down on the side table, turning to face you with the focus that had, over the years, become as familiar as your own heartbeat. "What was it?" he asked. "What finally convinced you? Three years is a long time to keep a man waiting. I'm not complaining," he added quickly. "I'm curious. I've always been curious."
You considered the question. There were a dozen answers you could give: the way he'd shown up at your apartment at 3 AM when you'd texted him about a breakthrough in your research, bearing champagne and a remarkably coherent understanding of the topic. The way he'd defended you against a condescending colleague at a university function, his voice so cold and cutting that the man had actually backed away. The way he'd introduced you to his family, with the words, "This is the woman I'm going to marry. Try not to be an arse about it." (Viserys Sr., to his credit, had not been an arse, though he had asked you some pointed questions about your intentions toward his "disastrous brother.")
But the truth was simpler, stranger, and harder to explain.
"It was the succulents," you said.
Daemon blinked. "The succulents."
"The ones you sent after we met. The ones with the card that said I was impossible to kill." You smiled and bumped his shoulder with your forehead. "Everyone else who'd ever pursued me had treated me like something fragile. A hothouse flower that needed to be handled with care. You were the first person who looked at me and saw someone who could survive just about anything. Including you."
Daemon reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His palm was warm, his grip firm but gentle. "You were right," he said. "You did survive me. You survived my family, my reputation, my first marriage, my disastrous engagement, three years of me asking you to marry me at increasingly inconvenient moments..."
"The proposal after my first conference was a low point."
"I stand by it. You were brilliant. I was overwhelmed. It seemed like the appropriate response."
"My committee didn't think so."
"Your committee was composed of small-minded academics who wouldn't know a grand romantic gesture if it bit them on their collective tenure." He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
"You were trying to make a point."
"The point was that I was losing my mind," Daemon said. "The point was that I had never, in my entire life, wanted anything the way I wanted you. Not the company, not the money, not the respect of my family, none of it. I would have burned it all down if you'd asked me to. I still would."
"I know," you said softly. "That's why I married you. Not because of the rings, the proposals or the dramatic declarations."
The next morning was gray and drizzly, the cherry blossoms drooping under the weight of the rain. You woke to the sound of Aegon singing, loudly and off-key, what appeared to be a song about dragons and pancakes, and to the sight of Daemon sprawled beside you, his hair mussed against the pillowcase, his face softer in sleep than it ever was in waking. You allowed yourself a moment to look at him. Then you prodded him in the ribs.
"Wake up. We have another house to see at ten."
He groaned, rolling away from you. "Cancel it. I've decided we're living here forever. We'll soundproof the walls, barricade the doors, and pretend the rest of humanity doesn't exist."
"We can't. Mrs. Redwyne is circulating another petition. This time it's about the recycling bins."
"Those recycling bins are the bane of my existence," Daemon muttered into his pillow. "Last week she cornered me in the lobby to discuss whether we should switch to a single-stream system. I've never been so bored in my life. I've been to tax seminars that were more engaging."
"Which is exactly why we're looking at townhouses. If we have our own property, the only person we have to discuss recycling with is Carwyn, and he's already made his position clear."
"What is his position?"
"He believes that anyone who can't be bothered to separate their glass from their plastic deserves the societal collapse that will inevitably follow."
Daemon lifted his head from the pillow, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "You know, when I hired him, I thought I was getting a butler. I didn't realize I was getting a Welsh prophet of environmental doom."
"You got both. It was a two-for-one deal." You swung your legs out of bed, your feet finding the heated floor, a luxury you would miss, you had to admit, when you finally left the penthouse. "Get up. Get dressed. We're meeting Patricia at ten, and I refuse to be late. It makes us seem pompous."
By the time you descended to the garage, you were dressed and armored in a forest green coat, your hair swept back in a low knot that had taken Greta exactly four minutes to execute but looked like it had required a team of professionals. Daemon had chosen a slate gray suit with a vest, because he believed that real estate agents, like opposing counsel and minor nobility, should be intimidated by one's tailoring choices.
Carwyn had the Mercedes idling at the entrance, his face as expressionless as ever but his eyes alert. "Good morning, Madam. Sir. The young masters are with Greta, learning writing grammar. She believes they should be able to conjugate verbs already."
"Northern efficiency," Daemon said, sliding into the backseat. "It's terrifying and I respect it."
The drive was uneventful, the rain washing out the city. Patricia was waiting outside the property, a townhouse on a quiet street lined with magnolias just beginning to bud. She had traded her helmet-like hairstyle for an updo that looked slightly less lacquered, and she was clutching a tablet.
"Good morning!" she chirped, her professional cheerfulness strained at the edges. "This is a unique property. It's been on the market for a few months because the owners did a very… specific renovation. But I think it might suit your needs perfectly."
"Specific?" you repeated, one eyebrow rising. "Define specific."
Patricia's smile flickered. "Perhaps it's best if I let you see for yourself."
The interior of the townhouse was, you had to admit, unlike anything you'd seen in your weeks of searching. The previous owners had apparently decided that what a historic property needed was a complete transformation into what you could only describe as "Tuscan villa meets nightclub." The walls were covered in Venetian plaster in shades of gold and terracotta. The floors were a dizzying pattern of marble tiles. And the light fixtures, dear Gods, the light fixtures, were wrought iron monstrosities that looked like they'd been salvaged from a medieval dungeon and then bedazzled by a particularly aggressive craft enthusiast.
"Oh my," Daemon breathed. "It's like someone weaponized bad taste."
"The kitchen," Patricia said weakly, "has been featured in several design magazines."
"For what?" you asked. "As a cautionary tale?"
The kitchen, when you reached it, was somehow worse than you'd imagined. The cabinets were a distressed orange that reminded you of nothing so much as a decaying pumpkin. The backsplash was a mosaic of tiny tiles in colors that had no business being adjacent to one another. And the center island, a massive slab of what appeared to be actual boulders mortared together, looked less like a cooking surface and more like an altar where ancient civilizations had performed unspeakable rituals.
"At least the appliances are new," Patricia offered, her voice small.
"The appliances," Daemon said, opening the refrigerator, "are the only things in this room that don't make me want to file a police report. What were the owners thinking? What were their influences? Was it a dare?"
"The owners," you said, tapping at your phone, "appear to be a couple who met while working on a reality television show about home renovations. They started their own design firm. Their motto is 'Your Home, Unleashed.'"
"I don't want my home unleashed. I want my home leashed. Muzzled. Possibly sedated."
But as you moved through the rest of the house, something strange began to happen. Beneath the truly horrific decorating choices, you started to see the bones of the property. The layout was excellent: a formal living room and dining room on the main floor, a library and family room on the second, bedrooms on the third and fourth, and crucially, a full basement apartment with its own entrance that could easily be converted into quarters for Greta and Carwyn. The windows were original and beautifully maintained. The floors, hidden under mosaic tile, were solid hardwood. And there was a roof deck with views that would be absolutely stunning if you were standing on something other than what appeared to be a shade of green that didn't exist in nature.
"We'd have to gut the entire thing," you said, standing in the primary suite, which was painted a shade of purple so aggressive it seemed to vibrate. "Every surface. Every fixture. Every single trace of the previous owners removed and exorcised."
Daemon, who had been inspecting a closet that was lined with leopard-print wallpaper, turned to look at you. "You're interested."
"I'm intrigued. There's a difference."
"There's always a difference with you." He crossed the room to stand beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. "But you see it, don't you? What it could be."
You did. Stripped of its faux nightmare, the house would be glorious: a showcase of restrained elegance, a monument to good taste, a private enclave where no neighbor could ever ask you about football fields or recycling protocols or community initiatives. You could already picture the library, walls lined with built-in shelves, a fireplace that actually worked, comfortable chairs that didn't look like they'd been stolen from a Cheesecake Factory. You could picture the children's rooms, the train tracks spreading across hardwood floors, the dragon figurines arrayed on custom shelving. You could picture the staff quarters, Greta's austere efficiency and Carwyn's dry disapproval contained on their own floor, close enough to summon but separate enough to ignore.
"The asking price is too high," you said, your voice cool and businesslike. "It's been on the market for months. The renovation costs alone would be astronomical. No one in their right mind would pay what they're asking."
Patricia, who had been hovering in the doorway with the air of a witness to a car crash, perked up. "The sellers are…motivated. They've already purchased a property in Lys. Something about wanting to be closer to a 'creative community' that 'embraces their vision.'"
"I'm sure they'll find the brothel architectures very welcoming," Daemon said. "Make an offer. Ten percent below asking, with a sixty-day close and a contingency that they take every single light fixture with them."
"Every single one?" Patricia asked, looking at the wrought iron-and-crystal monstrosity dangling from the ceiling. "What about the one in the foyer? It's…it's a statement piece."
"It's a statement that should never have been made," you said. "They can take the furniture, too. And the mosaic backsplash. And whatever that thing is in the powder room." You'd found a sculpture in the downstairs bathroom that you were fairly certain was meant to be a mermaid. "In fact, add a clause that any surface that can't be painted over must be removed at their expense. We're buying the bones, not the butchery."
That evening, you gathered the family in the penthouse's formal dining room, which, despite its name, was used primarily for pizza and negotiations, to discuss the potential move. Aegon and Viserys sat in their booster seats, their hair still damp from their baths, their faces attentive in the way of children who sensed that important things were being discussed and might, if they played their cards right, result in presents.
"We found a house," Daemon announced, his tone the same one he used for board meetings. "It needs a lot of work, but it has good bones and a garden and a separate apartment for Carwyn."
"Will the apartment have a kitchen?" Viserys asked, because of course that was his first question. "Carwyn says he misses cooking on a real stove. He says the induction cooktop in the penthouse is 'an abomination before Gods and men.'"
"I'm sure he did," you said. "And yes, the apartment will have a gas range and a full kitchen and a door that locks so Carwyn has somewhere to escape from all of you."
"He doesn't want to escape from us," Aegon said, with the wounded dignity of a child who considered himself universally beloved. "He said we're the least terrible children he's ever worked for."
"That's the nicest thing Carwyn has ever said about anyone," Daemon observed. "When I was your age, he called me a 'malevolent imp' and told my father I needed to be sent to military school."
"Would you have liked military school?" Aegon asked, his eyes wide.
"Absolutely not. I would have been expelled within a week. Probably for insubordination. Possibly for arson." Daemon's expression grew misty. "It would have been fun."
The children, sensing that the conversation was veering into territory that might result in them being sent to bed without dessert, refocused their attention on the more practical aspects of the move. Would they have to share a room? (No. And in fact, the new house would have a special room for the dragons and a special room for the trains, which sent Viserys into a state of such profound joy that he actually stopped moving for a full thirty seconds.) Would they still have a park nearby? (Yes, but a private garden that was more selective about its visitors, which made perfect sense to both children.) Would Mrs. Redwyne be there?
"No," you said with quiet ferocity. "Mrs. Redwyne will not be there. There will be no Mrs. Redwyne. There will be no petitions, no HOA meetings, no one who wants to discuss the relative merits of turf versus natural grass. There will only be us, in our townhouse, with our staff, our possessions and our absolute refusal to engage with anyone who doesn't meet our exacting standards."
The children exchanged a look. Then Aegon shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Can we have dessert now?"
Once the children were asleep and the penthouse was quiet, you stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out at the city. It glittered in the darkness, a constellation of lights and lives and people who were not you, who did not share your taste or your standards or your profound desire to be left alone with the family you had chosen and the man you had, against all odds and better judgment, decided to trust.
Daemon's arms wrapped around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. "Silver for your thoughts," he murmured.
"They're worth considerably more than a silver."
"A thousand silver, then. A million. My entire liquid net worth and the Aston Martin."
You leaned back against him, allowing yourself the rare luxury of relaxation. "Nothing. I was thinking about the party again. The night we met."
Part 3: coming soon...
a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist. Also, I lowkey hate the title of this fic, so if anyone has a better idea, let me know.
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{Daemon Targaryen X Reader}
It is your wedding night and your new husband has a reputation for being ruthless, violent and cruel. You know nothing about sex, but that doesn't stop him from making you his wife in every sense of the word.
You stood in front of the fire, your arms wrapped around your body as you stared into the flames, willing yourself to stop crying. The wedding had been perfect, but now you were left to do your wifely duty and consummate your marriage and the very thought made you shudder.
You knew nothing of men, of their desires and the marriage bed, and all you had heard about Daemon, your husband, was that he was rough and wild in all things, and this included the bedroom.
Your stomach rolled with nausea at the very thought. You had heard the horror stories of virgins, the blood and the pain, the tears. You were smaller in stature than most and your mother had warned you that the pain would be intense and unbearable.
When your lord father had arranged the marriage with the Prince you were both shocked and frightened. He was such an imposing figure at court, tall and broad, with strong arms and a sharp jawline. His eyes were violet and they held a darkness in them that made you feel as if he could read all your thoughts and secrets.
The wedding and the feast afterwards felt like a blur and all you could think about was getting away from everyone and the impending dread of the marriage bed. You had watched him across the room, laughing and joking with his brother, and then with the ladies who were vying for his attention. He had a certain swagger and cockiness about him that had you feeling even more on edge.
A quiet knock on the door of the bedchamber pulled you from your thoughts and you jumped, wiping your eyes and sniffing. You were sure you looked a sight and the thought only made you cry harder.
"Come in," you whispered, keeping your back to the door, and when the door creaked open you heard the many footsteps of your new handmaidens.
"Let's get you undressed my lady," one said softly, and she began to remove the pins from your hair, while the others worked on removing the ornate dress.
They were all new to you, a gift from your new husband to help you settle in, and you had only just met them this evening before the wedding. Your old handmaidens had been sent home and you missed them terribly, needing their advice now more than ever.
The new handmaids continued in silence, and the longer you were left alone in your head the more panicked you became. Once your dress had been removed and you were in just your shift, you took the goblet of wine one of the girls handed you, drinking down half the contents, hoping it would calm your nerves.
The girls continued their tasks, removing your jewelry, the remaining pins from your hair. Leaving you in just a thin satin shift that barely covered your body.
You stood awkwardly, fiddling with the fabric in your fingers, looking down at the ground and biting your lip.
"Shall we remove the shift, my lady?" One of the girls asked, and you felt your stomach drop, bile rising in your throat. You could feel their eyes on you, assessing the situation.
"No," you choked out, and the girl frowned at you. "I-I would prefer to keep it on."
The girls shared a knowing look and gathered your wedding gown, curtsying to you and bidding you goodnight. When the door closed, you let out a heavy sigh and walked back towards the fireplace, finishing off your wine, and staring once again into the flames.
It felt like hours had passed, and the silence of the room was deafening. The sound of your breathing seemed louder than ever, and you could hear your own heartbeat, the blood rushing through your ears.
You kept drinking the wine, hoping it would calm your nerves, and before long you had consumed two full goblets. Your body was beginning to feel warm and the edges of the room had begun to blur.
You were feeling light headed, and a little dizzy, and when the door finally opened and your husband entered, the room spun a little. You closed your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, and you felt his warm hands wrap around your waist.
He hummed as his mouth pressed kisses to your neck, his beard scratching your sensitive skin, and you leaned into him, his body radiating heat.
"Why aren't you undressed?" he whispered against your neck, he reached up and took the goblet out of your hand, taking a long sip and then placing it back on the mantelpiece.
"I-" you faltered, your cheeks burning, and he turned you around to face him. His large hands were resting on your waist and he looked at you with curiosity.
He guided you over to the nearby chaise and pushed you down onto it, and when he sat down beside you he began pouring a fresh goblet of wine.
He handed you the glass and watched you take a long sip, and you could see a hint of a smirk on his lips. He knew you were nervous.
"Tell me why," he said quietly, taking a sip from his own glass and you shrugged.
"I don't wish to take the shift off," you admitted, and he chuckled, taking the goblet from your hands and placing it on the table beside him.
"I know you did not wish for this marriage, but it is the way of things," he said, his voice was surprisingly soft, "but if it's any comfort, I do not intend to mistreat you."
You nodded, perhaps it was the wine or the warmth of his body, but the tension in your shoulders was easing a little.
"May I ask you something?" you whispered, and he raised an eyebrow, his mouth quirking.
"I suppose," he said with a small smirk.
"What's it like?"
"What's what like?" he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"The marriage bed," you said quickly, your cheeks burning and you averted your eyes.
Daemon cleared his throat, a hint of a smile on his face. He knew you were untouched, but he had not expected this kind of innocence.
"The marriage bed can be enjoyable, especially if both people are willing and wanting," he explained, and you swallowed hard, nodding.
"And if they aren't?"
Daemon's gaze softened and he sighed, looking into the fire. He was no monster. He knew the reputation he had at court, and although a lot of it was well earned, he was not going to be cruel.
"Then it's not fun for either of us," he said softly, and your gaze flickered up to meet his. He looked almost sympathetic, his eyes not holding their usual mischief.
You bit your lip and shifted closer to him, your body seeking out the warmth he provided. He smiled and wrapped an arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest, his hand stroking up and down your arm.
"You are now under my protection, my little wife," he murmured against your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "And I shall look after you."
You sighed and snuggled further into him, feeling safer than you had all day. The wine was helping to dull the edge of fear, and his touch was warm and gentle.
The conversation turned to other things, you both loved music and riding, and Daemon had a wicked sense of humor that had you laughing and blushing. You felt comfortable for the first time since you had met him.
You didn't notice his wandering hands, the way they stroked your thighs, your hips. You didn't notice how his lips grazed your neck, leaving soft kisses and nips. You were too focused on his words, the rumble of his chest.
"My little wife," he breathed against your ear, his hands slipping under the hem of your shift, and you suddenly stood up, moving away from him and wrapping your arms around yourself.
Daemon sighed, standing up and walking towards you. He cupped your face in his large hands, stroking his thumb along your cheek.
He reached for the straps of your shift, and began pulling them down your arms. Your hands came up automatically and tried to push them back up, and Daemon tutted, taking hold of your wrists and placing your palms on his chest.
"Stop it," he commanded, and the tone of his voice had you immediately obeying him. His hands resumed their task, pulling the straps down, letting the silky fabric pool around your feet.
You looked up at him with watery eyes, your cheeks flushed, and your arms covering your breasts. He cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing over your plump lips.
"Do not hide from me," he whispered, and your eyes dropped to the floor, a few tears escaping and running down your cheeks.
Daemon gently tilted your chin upwards and wiped away your tears. "Undress me," he commanded, and you looked up at him nervously, but nodded, moving your hands to begin untying the laces of his tunic.
He watched you carefully, his hands stroking your sides and hips, his eyes burning a trail across your body. When the last lace was untied, you slid the fabric off his broad shoulders, taking in the sight of him, the expanse of pale skin.
You had never seen a naked man, and as your eyes trailed over his body, you couldn't help the blush that heated your cheeks.
He was beautiful, the muscles stretched across his chest and stomach, and his arms were strong and defined. There was a dusting of hair on his chest, and a large scar across his shoulder and neck that made you reach out and trace your fingertips over the marred flesh.
He watched your face, amused by the look of innocence, enjoying how you explored his body with just a gentle touch.
"Do I meet your approval?" he smirked and you dropped your hand, looking away and blushing.
His hands went to your waist, his thumbs stroking the underside of your breasts, and his eyes followed their movements. He watched your nipples pebble under his gaze, the blush spreading across your chest, and he groaned softly.
"I need you to tell me what you like and what you don't," he said quietly, his breath tickling the shell of your ear.
"I-I don't know," you replied, your hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders.
"Then we shall have to explore, hmm?" he grinned, and then his mouth was on yours, swallowing your gasp.
He was gentle, his lips pressing soft kisses against yours, he was smiling as you tried to mimic his movements.
You were unsure where to put your hands, so they remained clutching at his shoulders, and Daemon chuckled, breaking the kiss and looking down at you with amusement.
He gripped your waist and lifted you up easily, your legs wrapping around his hips automatically, and he carried you over to the bed.
He laid you down and covered your body with his, kissing you slowly and deeply. Your hands were now roaming across his back, exploring the expanse of muscle.
When his lips left yours, trailing kisses down your neck, you were breathing heavily, your body on fire, a strange pressure building between your legs.
His lips continued their journey south, kissing the swell of your breasts, and he cupped them in his large hands, pushing them together and pressing soft kisses against your flesh.
He watched you as he ran his tongue across your nipple, and the sound you made had him groaning, his mouth sucking the peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the bud.
"Daemon," you gasped, the sensations were too much, and his name on your lips had him smirking against your skin.
He released the nipple with a pop, blowing cold air over the wet peak, watching the goosebumps rise, and the nipple pucker.
"It seems you like this," he chuckled, and he began to move to the other breast, giving it the same treatment.
You were panting, the pressure between your legs increasing, you rubbed your thighs together, trying to alleviate the feeling.
Daemon's eyes flicked down, noticing the movement, and he grinned, his hands gripping your hips, stilling your movements.
His kisses continued their journey south, his tongue trailing a line between your breasts and down your stomach. When he was about to reach the apex of your thighs, you shut your legs and grabbing his hair, trying to pull him away.
"What are you doing?" you asked, panicked, and he looked up at you, raising an eyebrow.
You had a basic understanding on how a man and woman make a child, but this act was something you had never heard of.
"I'm going to kiss you here," he murmured, his lips trailing soft kisses along your lower stomach, and your head fell back against the pillow, your grip loosening on his hair.
"I...I don't understand," you whispered, and he chuckled, biting and sucking on the delicate skin.
"You'll see," he promised, and his hands moved under your thighs, pushing them up and spreading them open, and you blushed, embarrassed and ashamed at how exposed you were. No one had ever seen you like this before, and your whole body was on fire.
You gasped when his mouth made contact with the sensitive flesh between your legs, his tongue flicking out and tasting the wetness. Your hands shot to his hair again, but instead of pulling him away, you pushed his face closer, moaning when you felt him licking a stripe up your slit.
His eyes were dark and hooded, and he watched your every reaction, enjoying how sensitive you were, how innocent. You were squirming and panting in his arms, your back arching off the bed when his tongue circled the small nub, sending bolts of pleasure through your body.
He held you still, keeping your thighs open, as his mouth feasted on you. You were writhing and gasping his name, and he was moaning against your skin, loving the taste of you.
You felt something building, something deep in the pit of your stomach, it was frightening and exhilarating, and you didn't know what was happening.
Your legs kicked, your hips bucking and you were moaning, the pressure increasing, and you were clawing at his head, his biceps, anywhere you could reach.
His large hands spread you open, his tongue circling your opening, pushing in slightly, and it was enough to have the coil inside you snapping, and you let out a loud moan, the waves of pleasure washing over you.
Your thighs were shaking and Daemon released his grip, letting you close them as you caught your breath.
You had never felt anything like that before, and when you finally opened your eyes, you were met with his violet ones, sparkling with mirth and a hint of smugness.
"See? That wasn't so bad, was it?" he smirked, and he was kissing you again, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, a heady mix of sweetness and salt.
You kissed him back eagerly, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, and he chuckled, nipping at your bottom lip.
His kisses were more urgent, and when his lips began to wander again, you tugged at his shoulders, trying to get him to stop.
"Why do you still fear me?" he asked, his forehead resting against yours, and you shrugged, unable to explain why.
"I... I don't know," you admitted, and he grinned, his hand going between your legs, his finger running a circle around the small bud.
You gasped and jerked your hips, you were more sensitive than before, and his touch was making you tremble.
He smiled at your reaction, continuing his slow, gentle circles, "This is the source of all your pleasure," he whispered, his mouth close to your ear. "As well as here..."
His fingers moved lower, tracing the entrance to your sex, and you whined as he slipped a finger inside you. Your hands clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, and he began to move his finger, slowly sliding it in and out.
"It may hurt a little," he admitted, watching your face carefully, and you swallowed hard, trying to adjust to the feeling. "But it will get better, and then the pain will fade."
You nodded, his words reassuring, and he pressed a kiss to your lips. He continued his gentle thrusts, watching your face closely, and when you were beginning to relax, he slid another finger inside.
"My sweet little wife," he purred against your ear, his mouth pressing kisses against your neck.
His thumb began rubbing slow circles on the nub, and you gasped, the feelings returning. You felt the coil beginning to tighten again, and your walls clenched around his fingers.
He smiled at how responsive you were becoming, how you were grinding against his hand, trying to seek out more. So shy and innocent, yet so desperate for him.
His hand withdrew and you whined, opening your eyes and glaring at him, but he just smirked, bringing his hand up to his mouth, and licking his fingers clean. You turned a deep shade of red, looking away, and he laughed.
He sat up, his fingers going to the laces of his breeches, and you watched, biting your lip. You had felt his hard length against you, but seeing it was a whole different experience.
Your eyes were wide and fearful, and Daemon couldn't deny that he liked how you looked at him. It was a mixture of awe, desire, and a little bit of terror. He knew how big he was, and the first time with him would not be easy.
"We'll take it slow," he promised, his fingers caressing your cheek, and you nodded, the trust in your eyes making his heart ache, he would try his best not to betray it.
He pushed his breeches down his legs, and kicked them off, settling his body between your spread legs, his large cock pressing against your wet sex.
You were trembling, and Daemon leaned down, pressing his lips against yours.
"Relax, byka ābrazȳrys {sweet wife}," he whispered against your lips, and you nodded, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath, your nails digging into his arms.
Daemon gripped the base of his cock, his other hand hooking your leg around his hip, and then he was guiding himself inside you.
You felt a sharp, burning pain, and you cried out, clinging to him. He kissed your cheek and whispered sweet nothings in your ear, continuing his gentle thrusts.
He was barely halfway inside and you were gasping, the pain too much. You tried to push him away, but he shushed you, his hips moving in a slow and steady rhythm.
His mouth capturing yours in a slow and deep kiss, a hand moving between you to stroke your little nub. You let out a soft moan and he smiled against your lips, his fingers stroking faster.
"That's it," he breathed, and he pushed forward, fully sheathing himself inside you, and you moaned, the pain fading as his fingers continued their movements.
He was still, his lips leaving yours and trailing kisses across your cheeks and neck. Your skin was pink, flushed, and you were panting, your hands still clinging to his arms.
He waited until your walls stopped clenching around him, and when he felt you relax, he started moving.
His movements were slow, careful, and his fingers never stopped rubbing slow circles. The pain faded, and as you grew accustomed to the sensation of being stretched, a new feeling began to build.
"There, not so bad, is it?" he murmured against your skin, and you shook your head, his thrusts getting harder, faster.
Your hands moved up to his shoulders, and his mouth captured yours in a deep kiss, swallowing your moans. He was moving with purpose, pressing himself against the spot inside you that had you seeing stars.
He broke the kiss, his eyes boring into yours, and you blushed, unused to having someone look at you like that. His gaze was full of lust and desire, and you couldn't look away, even if you wanted to. You were moaning his name, begging for him to go faster, harder, and he grinned, happy that you were enjoying it.
"Pleasure, you see, is a tool," he said, his voice low and husky, his eyes flashing dangerously. "It can be used to break or bind, and I am going to bind you to me, my dōna byka ābrazȳrys {sweet little wife}."
His thrusts were punishing, and you were gasping, clinging to him for dear life. His mouth was hot and wet against your skin, leaving love bites wherever he could reach.
Your hands moved to his hair, tugging hard, and he groaned. You smiled at his response, tugging a little harder, and his hips jerked, and he chuckled at your aggression.
"You're a fast learner," he groaned, and you couldn't help but giggle, and he growled, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss.
"Oh, you'll pay for that," he muttered against your lips, and you were smiling, your giggles turning to moans.
He sat up a little, pinning you down with one hand splayed across your chest, his hips rolling slowly. His eyes were raking over your body, admiring how beautiful you were, flushed and sweaty.
You were watching him too, his muscles rippling as he moved, the way his chest heaved, his face flushed, and the way his cock glistened as it slid in and out of you.
You reached a hand down, trailing it down his abs, and he smiled at the gesture. You were getting bolder, and he enjoyed it, enjoying how eager you were becoming.
He slowed his pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder, and your eyes widened. He leaned down, pressing his body against yours, and captured your lips in a deep, passionate kiss.
You could feel something building again, that exquisite coiling sensation, and you were gasping, your walls fluttering around him. He was moaning, his breath hot against your skin, his thrusts becoming erratic.
You felt the coil snap, your body shaking and trembling, the pleasure washing over you, and your nails were digging into his back.
He groaned, burying his face in your neck, his hands clutching at your body. Your tight walls were squeezing him, and he couldn't hold back anymore, spilling his seed deep inside you.
You felt his warm release, and it felt strange, but not unpleasant, and you were both breathing heavily, trying to catch your breath.
He kissed you again, gently and sweetly, and you responded, sighing softly. When he pulled away, he was smiling, and he rolled off of you, lying on his back beside you.
You were blushing, suddenly feeling shy, and he laughed, reaching out and pulling you into his side and kissing the top of your head.
"Was that so bad?" he asked, and you giggled, hiding your face in his chest.
"No, not at all," you mumbled, and he grinned, placing a warm hand on your stomach.
"I wonder if we made a child tonight," he mused, his fingertips gently caressing the soft skin.
You placed your hand on his, the thought of creating a new life was both frightening and exciting, and you smiled up at him.
"I hope we have many," you murmured, and his eyes widened slightly, his smile genuine, and he squeezed you gently.
"We will have to try harder then," he smirked, and his hand trailed lower, making you squeal.
He pulled you on top of him, and you were both smiling and laughing, the world falling away as he kissed you again.
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⤷ warnings: smut, p in v, cock slapping, overstimulation, cum eatingˎˊ˗
“J-just the tip, like you said, Stevie.” You’re not quite sure how you ended up in this position, lying flat on Steve’s bed while he had your knees folded up to your chest, and using one hand to rub the fat head of his cock through your soaked folds.
“Yeah, baby, I know. I promise.” Steve said shakily, too entranced by the sight of your hole dripping with arousal to look at your face. Before he pushed his length in, he slapped the angry head against your pussy, relishing in the way you recoiled backwards. You panted heavily as he bullied his cock into you, throwing his head back with a low groan, you were even tighter than he expected.
You were best friends, best friends weren’t supposed to fuck, but the horniness won over and Steve told you there was nothing wrong with having his cock inside of you if it was only the tip. You agreed, but now you weren’t so sure—the feeling of his girth stretching you wide enough to make you gasp was intoxicating. Your hands grasped at the sheets to hold on to something as your walls pulsated around him.
“Ohh—fuck, pretty girl. Don’t do that.” Steve’s lashes fluttered from the pleasure soaring through him right from his cock. He wasn’t even thrusting, yet he felt like he could cum just from this.
“Mmf—s-sorry. Stevie! What are you—what are you doing?” Steve’s hips moved before he could properly think about it, pushing his cock even deeper into your pussy with a squelching sound, definitely breaking his promise. “We can’t—we shouldn’t—”
“Shh, it’s alright, baby.” He muttered, gripping your thighs tightly to drive his length in and out of you at a steady pace. “I’m gonna make you feel so good. I know you can take it, that’s it.” Every time you opened your mouth, only a string of moans left your lips, making your head swirl and full of him.
“I—ngh—don’t stop, Steve! Oh god!” You cried out, the coil in your stomach started to tighten threateningly, your high inching closer and closer with every thrust that directly hit your g-spot.
“You like it, hm?” Steve smirked, quickening his pace once he realized neither of you were far off from an orgasm. “Told ya this was a good idea, shit, you hear how wet you are?” He laughed mockingly.
You could only squeeze your eyes shut, screaming in response. “My—ahh—my stomach feels weird, Steve.” You warned, as the pleasure inside of you kept growing hotter. Your chest heaved, his balls smacking against your ass while his brows furrowed in concentration.
“Weird, huh?” Steve repeated, his voice dripping with a honey syrup tone. “Thats good, sweetheart. Means you’re about to cum all over my cock. Do it f’me, just let go.”
Your legs shook from around his shoulders, an incoherent moan of his name echoing through the stuffy room as your orgasm won over. You never thought it could feel this good, but as the pleasure died down, overstimulation took its place.
“I can’t-t, Stevie. S’too much—urg,” but Steve only kept thrusting his now soaked cock in an uneven rythym, keeping a tight hold on you.
“‘M close, ‘m close, ‘m close!” Steve repeated through ragged breaths, before suddenly stilling inside you. “Fuckkk—mmm,” his body collapsed over you, crushing you further into the squeaking mattress as his cock shot ropes of his hot cum, leaking out of you once you couldn’t take it anymore.
You weakly pushed at his shoulder, and Steve balanced his weight one on his elbow, pulling out of you slowly. You hissed at the feeling of emptiness, he rubbed your thigh consolingly. “I know, baby.”
Steve reached a hand down, and scooped some of his cum back into your hole, causing you to shudder. He then brought the same hand up to your mouth, and swiped his fingers over your bottom lip. “Go on, sweetheart. Suck ‘em clean.” He coaxed you.
You stared into his eyes, before parting your mouth and closing them around his fingers, gently sucking them. “Oh, fuck.” Steve exhaled. “You’re gonna get me hard again.”
He quickly pulled them out and replaced his fingers with his tongue, kissing you messily. When you pulled apart, you could see the lust swimming in his eyes again. “Why don’t we go again, baby? I promise just to put the tip in this time.” Steve flashed you a toothy grin.
faux sympathy during sex with frank is like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. the two things are good on their own, but work so fucking well together.
he had been pounding into you for who knows how long. pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you. if he could, he'd keep going until the sun came up. but he was older. not in his prime anymore. combine that with an aching back and he's ready to tap out after the fifth or six time. but you're barely getting started.
you wanna keep going, baby? that's fine with me. but you gotta get on top, then.
you whined but complied anyway. you were what most would call a pillow princess. frank rarely, if ever, let you get on top. not because he didn't like it, but he just preferred taking care of you. however, on nights like tonight, when you're sex drive is still high, he allows himself to push aside his pride and let you take control for a bit.
your thighs were beginning to burn. truthfully, you weren't sure how much longer you could keep this up. you pawed at his chest, a soft whimper getting dragged out of you when his tip hit the right spot.
"frankie... please," you mumble, tears threatening to spill over.
"aww, what is it, baby? thought you wanted this? but if you don't..." he shifts, acting as if he's about to pull out.
"no! i do, i do!" you exclaim, sinking onto him even deeper. a low groan slips from his lips. goddammit, you're just sucking him in. "but 'm tired. i need your help."
frank clicks his tongue. "oh, baby's tired, huh? well, you said you could do this all by yourself. my big girl can take care of herself, isn't that right?"
you nodded, hurrying up your pace. he rests his hands on your waist, helping to guide you up and down. he just can't help himself. the man takes pleasure in helping out his girl.
"there ya go, baby. knew that you could do it. just needed daddy's help, huh?" he teases.
he thrusts into you, with you matching his pace as you grind down. once, twice, until you both come simultaneously. you lean forward, eyes already closing shut. you feel so full of his come that it warms you from the inside out.
"yeah, go to sleep, sweetheart. daddy's gotchu now," he whispers into your hairline, kissing you gently.
frank may have faux sympathy in bed, but his love for you is universal.
࿓ Summary: You finally convince Steve to let you take care of his needs first. Based off of this request :)
࿓ CW: MDNI!, 18+, Smut, all porn no real plot, oral (M!receiving), loud!Steve, handjob, blowjob, all the jobs, swallowing, spitting, sub?Steve, Steve loses his mind, Steve is transported to another planet
࿓ A/N: guys... first time writing about a blowjob... don't come at me if it sucks (pun intended)
࿓ WC: 2k
࿓ Song Inspo: ↻ ◁ |Need To Know by Doja Cat| ▷ ↺
“Shit- careful” Steve steadied you as you stumbled over your legs in your hurry to get him to the bedroom. The heat between your legs had been killing you at hours, the dim lighting of the bar, the hazy second hand smoke, and your boyfriend looking entirely too delectable.
You hadn’t been able to take your eyes off him the entire night. You had no issue standing against the wall while he spoke to some old friends. Gave you the perfect view of him. His toned body, the sweet moles you dreamt about kissing, the bob of his adams apple everytime he swallowed, the way the waistband of his boxers peaked out from his jeans every time he gestured grandly, and god those fucking jeans. They were a literal walking temptation, it was sinful the things those jeans made you think of. But could anyone really blame you? Fuck no.
The way the denim clung to his thighs and ass had you quietly squeezing your thighs together. It seemed they had shrunk ever so slightly since his last wear, gripping onto his skin and pulled taut at his crotch. The tightness combined with the lighting, combined with the fact that your boyfriend was hung had you ogling at the subtle imprint of his dick against the medium wash jeans.
It was fucking criminal how good he looked, and it was almost concerning how badly you wanted to pull him from his conversation and shove him in some closet and take him in your mouth. In fact, you had been imagining finally getting your mouth around him for a while. But Steve, ever doting and caring Steve, had always insisted on taking care of you and your needs first. And by the time the two of you were done, neither had any energy left for you to suck his dick let alone even give him a quick handjob. It was sweet, how much he cared about your satisfaction, but holy shit were you eager to give him some of that same kind of love.
When Steve had returned to your side, eyeing you up and down, taking in the way you were biting eagerly at your bottom lip and the way your thighs were clenched tightly together, he knew it was time to get the hell out of the bar. The minute you were seated in the car his hand went to your thigh, subtly trying to slide it higher. You carefully kept his touch lower, a quiet hint that things tonight would be different.
When you had officially arrived back at his house, you had all but essentially climbed over the console and followed him out of the car. There was no need to waste time having him open up your door. He laughed and helped you out, before his laugh was quickly swallowed by your lips on his. He placed his hands on your hips, holding you against him.
You could feel the tight tent in his pants, and all you could think about was how uncomfortable his dick was trapped inside those tight little jeans. You wrapped a finger around his belt loop and all but pulled him inside behind you. You tugged on his loop, causing him to stumble slightly after you. You turned then, grabbing his shoulders roughly as his body tumbled into yours. He smiled, a surprised laugh filling the air.
“Easy now, baby.”
Your fingers splayed out on the warm skin of his stomach, just barely under his shirt, drawing a hiss at your cold touch. “Stevie, please. I wanna take care of you tonight.”
Steve stared down at your needy eyes. His cheeks burned slightly, “I dunno- that’s not really our routine-”
“Fuck the routine, I want you to feel good.” Your nails dug into his skin carefully.
“I always feel good, though.” He carefully took your hands in his.
You gently slipped your hands from his, pushing him against the wall with a soft thud. “I want tonight to be better than good, Steve. I want tonight to open your eyes to a whole new realm of possibilities. Baby, when was the last time someone took care of you first?”
Heat crept up the back of his neck, “I dunno- like early high school?”
“Jesus, that was over 5 years ago, Steve. I promise it’s better than you remember. I really want to do this for you, baby.” You carefully smoothed over his shirt, lips brushing over the skin of his neck.
His fingers dug into your hips and he licked his lips carefully. Steve wasn't used to this: someone actually wanting to care for his needs. He swallowed hard before giving you a short nod. “Okay- yeah I would like that.”
You smiled immediately, pressing sweet kisses to his collar bone, your hands sliding down his chest. “M’gonna take such good care of you baby. Treat you right, show you just how much I love you.” Steve felt his skin light on fire as your hot breath fanned across his skin and your hands traveled lower. His breath caught violently the moment your palm met the brutally tight tent in his pants. You moan against his neck as you palmed his imprint. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you the whole night, Stevie. You looked so good, all I wanted to do was drop to my knees for you.”
Steve let out a strangled noise, his senses already on fire just from your words. His chest heaved as your fingers expertly pulled his belt from the loops of his pants, letting it clatter on the floor. “Fuck- oh god, you-” his voice was strained, the sound catching in his throat.
You pulled your face away from his neck, eyes lit up like stars. You quickly unzipped his pants, carefully tugging them down. You followed, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips before sinking onto your knees in front of him. The sight of his length straining against his cotton underwear had your mouth watering. Carefully, you pressed a long kiss to the outline, pulling a loud groan from Steve.
He watched you, eyes unable to truly conceive the fact that you actually looked eager. “Y-ou sure you wanna do this?”
You nodded, licking your lips, “I can take it.” Your hands carefully gripped his thighs as you cast a look up at him.
The sight had Steve’s knees already weak: you on your knees in front of him, giving him that sweet look mixed with love and desire. He watched as your fingers slowly curled under the band of his boxers and tugged them down to meet with his jeans.
His dick sprang up, carefully slapping his stomach. You stood tall on your knees, eyeing his length and girth as your hands slowly moved up his thighs. He let out a shutter as your hand gently wrapped around his base, his dick twitching ever so slightly. You bit your lip before carefully licking away the drops of pre-cum that had leaked from his tip.
Steve leaned heavy against the wall, his hands coming up to his head “Oh-fuck- that feels-”
You smiled and licked a long strip down the underside of his length before looking up at him with hooded eyes, “feels good?”
He gave you a strangled sound of agreement, his head tipping back against the wall. You carefully spit into your hand, giving him a few slow strokes before the main course. You reveled in the way his thigh muscles twitched under your free hand. Your thumb carefully rubbed over his tip in slow circles before letting your hand slide back down his entire length. “Steve, baby?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, breath already a mess. “Mhm?”
“I want you to watch me. Watch me show you what you have to look forward to from now on.”
He carefully opened his eyes, peering down at you. You smiled more, pressing a wet kiss to his thigh before letting your tongue twist against his twitch tip. Steve let out a guttural moan, hips bucking closer to your face. You carefully took him into your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks as you slid down his cock. Your tongue slid against his veins, saliva coating his cock as you took him deeper.
Steve could see stars littering his periphery, the only clear thing he could focus on was you and your mouth. His fingers threaded through his hair, his back pushing hard against the wall. He groaned low as you pulled back, your wet lips sliding against his dick. “Faster- fuck, faster”
You listened, moaning carefully around him before picking up your pace. Your mouth sank lower, your tongue running circles and swirls against him. His hips eagerly bucked into your mouth, sending himself deeper into your warm mouth. Your hands squeezed at his thighs before coming up to aid your mouth. Your hollowed cheeks slid back and forth, your hands eagerly stroking the length that you couldn’t quite reach without gagging. The sound of his groans and whimpers fueled your mouth. Your tongue swirled around his aching tip every time you moved back up his cock, pulling sweet needy whimpers from his throat.
Steve felt like his mind was melting, the waves of pleasure washing over him were knocking him further and further under the surface. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry from hanging open. His entire body felt like there were bolts of lightning running through his veins. His mind was foggy, the only thing breaking through was you and that perfect mouth. Steve tried many times to form sentences, but they only fell out as incoherent whimpers and moans.
Steve pulled at his own hair, chest heaving. You pulled away with a careful pop, licking your lips as you looked up at him. “Fist my hair, Stevie. Go on, fuck my mouth the way I know you want to. I told you, I can take it.”
The small encouragement was all Steve needed, his hand came down to the back of your head. He pushed your head forward, his dick slamming to the back of your throat with so much force you had to steady yourself against his thighs. His hips met your mouth, stuttering forward and back eagerly. You met him with the same eagerness, cheeks hollowing out and taking him as deep as you couch.
You felt his cock twitch violently against your mouth the harder you sucked, the faster he bucked into you. “Shit baby- m’gonna come-” His hips faltered as thick ropes of cum shot into your mouth. He slouched against the wall, a droplet of sweat falling down the side of his head as he watched you sit back on your heels. You thumbed off a drop of cum from the corner of your mouth before licking it clean and swallowing the rest. “Fucking Christ baby-” Steve felt himself fall deeper in love. You pressed one last kiss to his tip before pulling up his boxers and his jeans.
Steve watched you with wide eyes as you rebuckled his belt for him, eyes shining with visible hearts. You smiled at his lovesick stare, cupping his cheek. “So? What did ya think?”
“I think… I’ve been missing out on a lot.” He let out a breathless laugh
You laughed with him, fixing the wrinkle in his shirt. “Told ya.”
“You just rocked my world, baby.” He dipped his head, catching your lips. He could still vaguely taste himself on your lips, the taste making his brain fry in real time.
You pulled away with a smirk. “Come on, loverboy. I wanna shower and get your sweet ass in the bed.” You playfully slapped his ass.
He smirked and lifted you up with ease, tossing you over his shoulder. You let it happen, smiling and letting your arm rest against his back and prop up your head. “Oh you’re not getting away so easily, missy. We’re in for a long night.”
You smiled happily, as he carried you to your shared bedroom. “Hey, no complaints here.”
How’d you think frank would react to reader in subspace! You’re literally one of the only people writing for frank and your writing is so so brilliant!🙂↕️
frank castle x fem!reader
cw: mdni (18+), smut at the beginning but after that it's just fluff, brief daddy kink
a/n: thank you so much angel <33 i gotta keep my fellow frank freaks fed 😤
frank knows you're dropping from the broken whine you let out and the way your hands become grabby, pulling at his shoulders to try and get him as close as physically possible. you always get that way when you start to sink.
he has you on your back beneath his muscular frame, your knees hooked over his shoulders while his cock batters your pussy. his pelvis slams against your center over and over in rough thrusts. he's just pounding you in search of his release.
you'd already cum twice. once on his tongue and once on his cock. the static of overstimulation chipped away at your sensibilities and made you vulnerable. it left you needing him. depending on him.
"just one more for me, baby. c'mon. i know you got it in you," he grunts as his eyes flutter.
"mmm... frankie," you whine. your glossy eyes search to connect with him amidst the haze of lust surrounding you. you babble out the next word while blinking slowly. "daddy..."
he groans at the slurred quality of it. "i'm right here, sweetheart. just gotta cum for me. squeeze me nice and tight."
in this state of mind, defiance isn't an option. you feel your belly starting to flutter along with your legs beginning to flex. the orgasmic spool inside you unravels as though his words work as a direct physical command.
you cry out and arch your back. your arms loop around his neck to cling to him like you're at risk of losing him. your teeth dig into your bottom lip as more choked, pitiful sounds explode out of you. he can feel tears leak from your eyes against his shoulder. you're so close to his ear that he can hear the soft sniffles.
"that's my baby. that's my girl. my good fuckin' girl. so fuckin' good for me, fuck," he grumbles against your skin, his own words trailing off and becoming incoherent.
he presses down on you harder to the point that you're completely squished against the mattress under his weight. his cock is so deep inside you that it'd probably hurt if you were more lucid.
most of the time, he was more gentle with you. everywhere but the bedroom, he treated you as though you were a tiny doll made of glass. when he was close like this though, on the brink draining his balls inside you, being careful felt like something only possible in dreams.
he crashes over the edge hard, growling against your neck and clutching the sheets. his breath comes out in ragged pants as pure euphoria washes through him. you let out tiny squeaks below him, but they're not of much concern right now.
it's after the blissful fog settles that he tends to you.
he rolls off of you once he's almost all the way down. his back hits the bed, and cool air flows between both of your bodies. you lie there for a few moments as if you're dead. if not for the quick rise and fall of your chest, that's what someone may think. your eyes stare at the ceiling, blank and unthinking. tears trail down your temples.
after a few seconds, you start to turn onto your side. you curl up, pupils still cloudy and face void of any specific emotion. in these brief eclipses after sex and before totally settling down, your mind gets stuck in a weird limbo. all you can think about is him. you want him holding you, touching you, taking care of you. but you can't ask for it. can't verbalize the desire for any of that. in the beginning stages of your relationship, he thought you were trying to forget he was beside you.
but now he knows better.
he places a hand on the divot in your waist and pulls you back to him, not letting you draw in on yourself. his nose brushes behind your ear while his lips plant soft kisses on your throat.
"no hiding from me, babydoll. you did so good," he whispers. his hand caress your warm skin, trying to reel you back to him.
you still don't have any words, but your muscles relax for him in an instant. he can feel it under his fingers.
"that's right. i got you, daddy's got you," he mumbles, "let's get you cleaned up."
he rises to his feet on his side of your bed and drags your limp body across it so he can hoist you up into his arms. in your more playful moments, he might throw you over his shoulder, tease you about how he used to have to carry guys like this when he was in the marines. but you're not giggling or squirming right now, so he doesn't.
he scoops you up like a bride and walks over to the bathroom in your apartment. that's when you start coming back a little. you nuzzle at his chest, your warm breath fanning across his muscle.
"there she is," he mumbles.
inside the bathroom, he sits you on the countertop. you lean back against the mirror while he goes to turn on the shower. the surface is cool on your skin. your eyes flutter shut as you relax a bit more.
only seconds later, he's back in front of you. he stands between your thighs and cups your face in one large hand. as quickly as they shut, your eyes pop back open to look at him.
"how're you feeling, pretty girl?" he asks, voice quiet and rough.
you nod in response as if it's a yes or no question. pushing off the mirror, you drape your arms around his shoulders again and press your face to his skin.
"'m ok," you sigh, "just a little sleepy."
"yeah, you are," he says with the hint of a smile gracing his features, "you can knock out as soon as we're done, ok? just let me take care of you."
again, you nod. you never had any objections to handing control over to frank. he lifts you from the counter again and walks into the shower with you.
the hot water streams down onto your bodies below. it trickles from his skin to yours, relaxing both of your muscles. you shut your eyes and keep your head on his shoulder. his fingers twirl in small patterns on your back as he sets you down. the tile is cold on the soles of your feet. you still have to lean against him for balance.
vaguely, you feel his hands running over your body. they’re slippery, slicked up with your sweet-smelling body wash. you swear you hear his deep voice humming, vibrating in his chest beneath your ear, but it could be your imagination.
in total, it feels like the shower is only seconds long. you know you’ve been in there for longer, you felt him run through your whole routine. but time melts away in your mind when you're in this state.
as soon as you’ve acclimated to the smooth surface underfoot, he’s guiding you off of it and onto the cushioned mat outside the shower. you stand there, managing a few lazy blinks.
he laughs softly at that. “few more minutes, sleepy girl.”
with an old towel from the rack, he dries you off. he’s quick but thorough, getting every last little bead of water off of you without being tedious about it.
he scoops you back up after that. your arms and legs latch around him, holding on as he carries you to the bedroom and plops you down on the bed.
“time for sleep?” you yawn, stretching your limbs a bit.
"nice try but you gotta put on some clothes, baby. don't want you catching a cold," he says before heading over to the dresser and grabbing a top for you along with some panties.
"that's not how it works, y'know," you correct while lazily watching him return to you. he tosses the scraps of fabric next to your body on the mattress.
"oh you're a doctor now, huh?" he mutters before tapping your ankle, "put your legs up."
you do as he says without complaint, lifting your legs high into the air so he can pull your panties over them.
"i'm just saying, i wouldn't get sick from sleeping naked," you yawn.
shaking his head, he grabs one of your outstretched arms to pull you up right. despite regaining your ability to speak, you still looked at him with that same dreamy smile you got when you were blissed out.
he tugs the sweatshirt over your head. it was one of his, one of the newer, softer ones you'd bought for him. he'd owned it just long enough and worn it the right amount of times needed for it to smell like him.
"there you go," he says softly and pulls you to his chest for a few seconds. he just feels you in his arms for a moment, pressed against him, safe and sound. as much as you loved being babied, part of the reason he took care of you was for himself too.
he kisses your forehead and then lets you lie down.
"you get comfy, babydoll. i'm gonna put some clothes on, and then i'll be right back," he says before departing to tend to himself for a few minutes.
when he does come back, he's surprised you haven't passed out already. instead, you're tucked under the blankets and curled up to a pillow, waiting for him. you reach out with another grabby hand to signal your desire for him.
"i'm coming," he mutters as he rolls onto the mattress beside you and loops his muscular arm behind your head.
you nuzzle right up to his chest, draping your own limbs over his body. he feels your lips lay a small kiss on his chest.
"get some sleep, baby. don't want you to be all cranky in the morning," he murmurs and shifts a little to engulf you with his frame.
"you're the one who gets cranky..." you reply. but you follow along anyways and shut your eyes. his body heat combined with your soft bedding has you drifting off in no time.
A/N: Frank is sort of unhinged in this one and reader is sort of into that. Let’s just say Frank is thinking with his other head for the majority of this fic. Also, if you’ve read The Punisher vs. The Cat, Mister (the cat) makes an appearance in this one. As always, a big thank you to @wheredidiputmyfish for beta reading and being so great! <3
Request: hi friend! can you do a frank x reader where she’s a vigilante and she’s all graceful and acrobatic and shit and they haven’t been together that long, so one day he’s over at her place and finds out she used to be a ballerina (he finds pictures or something)? can be smutty if you want to…
Summary: Frank and Reader can’t keep their hands off each other after a unique date night involving taking out mobsters, stealing booze, and taking body shots.
(Warnings: SMUTTTTTT, canonical frank stuff - i.e., guns, knives, physical fights, vigilante!reader, alcohol, body shots lol, reader’s cat is a cockblock, fingering, oral (fem receiving), p in v, dirty talk)
You weren’t sure what you were expecting when Frank had suggested taking out a small group of mobsters together for date night, but it wasn’t wrestling a man twice your size to the ground as he repeatedly called you names and reached for his gun in the same breath. You’d had the element of surprise for about three seconds before the guy was shoving you back, and the only thing you could do to avoid losing your edge was use the momentum of his push to swing yourself onto his back. You wrapped your legs tightly around his neck, and he crumbled to the ground as you squeezed the life out of him with your thighs.
Gunshots echoed off the walls in the next room, and you looked up just in time to see Frank bash the gunman’s head into a shelf on the wall. He glanced in your direction, no doubt checking that you were okay, and grinned when he saw the position you were posed in. You were still kneeling over the man you’d just killed, panting like you’d just run a marathon. You couldn’t help it – the man had a shit ton of stamina, and you weren’t used to being so hands on during your patrols.
“Can you do that to me later?” Frank called, chuckling.
You couldn’t stop the smirk from appearing on your face. Even when he’s in the middle of beating mobsters to a pulp, he can’t keep his mind out of the gutter.
“Only if you’re good.” You teased, brushing your pants off as you stood. “Is that the last of ‘em?”
“Yeah,” Frank nodded his head toward the back exit, “Take what you want. I’ll keep watch.”
The den, which fronted as the back office of a laundromat, was littered with contraband. Guns, knives, drugs, imported alcohol, and medicine was scattered around the room, stacked in varying heights and covering most of the available surfaces. You weren’t particularly interested in any of the low-level things they were no doubt selling on the black market. You had plenty of your own guns and knives, and drugs weren’t your thing.
The poker game you’d interrupted was left half-played on the table, cards splayed along the green felt of the tabletop. You dragged your finger along the soft fabric, eyeing the stacks of poker chips in front of each chair. There was at least a quarter of a million dollars in each hand, but you knew none of the cash would be here. They may be idiots, but they weren’t that dumb.
You searched the overturned cards for a familiar face – one that would tell the police exactly who’d taken care of the pests of Hell’s Kitchen – and smiled when you found her: The Queen of Hearts. You slipped the playing card between the fingers of the man you’d killed and stuffed a single poker chip in your back pocket.
Soon, the public would know just how close they were living to a group of men who not only trafficked drugs and weapons, but also women, and the Queen of Hearts would be considered responsible for it. To the police, you were a menace without a conscience, but to the public, you were the only one protecting them from certain death.
When you joined Frank in the back alley, he looked you up and down, chuckled, and then looked you up and down again.
“You didn’t see anything you liked?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Eh, all I could find was this.”
You raised the bottle out in front of you, giggling. On your way out the door, you’d thanked whatever guardian angel was looking out for you, because there, ripe for the taking, was an unopened bottle of Patrón Platinum.
“D’ya wanna take shots of it off me when we get back to mine?” You winked, handing the bottle to Frank before stuffing your arms in your coat.
“Only if you’re good.” He smirked.
-
When you slid through the fire escape window of your apartment twenty minutes later, Frank was hot on your tail, pawing at the waistline of your pants. You turned, facing his broad shoulders and chest. He was so goddamn pretty, and you couldn’t help the broad strokes your hands made across his body. He smirked, lifting you onto the kitchen counter with ease, before pressing himself between your legs. His head was mere inches away from yours, and the urge to kiss him all over his pretty face became overwhelming.
Your ears perked up at the sound of the tequila bottle sliding across the granite countertop. You’d almost forgotten about your amazing find earlier.
“You mentioned body shots.” Frank smirked, brushing your lips with his. Not just a taunt, a dare, too.
“The shot glasses are in the cabinet behind me.”
You arched into his warmth as he reached above your head. The clink of two glasses being pinched together reverberated across the dim kitchen, sending a shiver down your spine.
“I don’t have any limes.” You murmured, watching him twist the cap off the bottle. “I do have salt, though.”
You reached behind you, procuring a saltshaker as Frank huffed a laugh. He poured the clear liquid into the shot glasses while you readied your neck, and when he finally swiped his tongue across the line of salt on your throat, you choked out a moan of indescribable pleasure. Fire followed the wake of his tongue from your neck down to your pounding core, causing you to squirm against his hard body.
He tilted his head back, maintaining eye contact with you as he tipped the liquid into his mouth. Your eyes raked up his body, eyeing the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, the way he didn’t flinch even though you knew the liquid burned as it went down. His focus on you was primal, his eyes already darkening with lust. Your lips parted, breath hitching as he lifted the second glass up to your face. You gulped the liquid down greedily, doing your best to mimic his stoic reaction, but your nostrils burned, and you snorted out a giggle as you scrunched your face up.
Frank let out a loud laugh as you buried your face in your hands, embarrassed that you’d just snorted in his face. You could feel the heat in your cheeks rising and could almost guarantee that your face was stuck in an expression of horror.
“What a way to kill the mood.” You pointed out, giggling again. Frank patted your thighs in a reassuring gesture before gently pulling you down from the counter. Your cat, Mister, appeared in the doorway, trotting across the linoleum and meowing loudly as Frank did his best not to step on him.
“Shit,” you gasped, “I have to feed him.”
You gently pushed past Frank’s broad body and swooped Mister into your arms, cuddling him against your chest. Frank made a show of grabbing the bottle of tequila and saluting Mister as he made his way out of the kitchen and towards the door to your bedroom.
“Where are you going?” You quirked, raising an eyebrow at him as you filled the cat bowl with food.
“Only a coward can’t admit when they’ve lost.” Frank replied, matter-of-factly. His large frame disappeared through the door, and you rolled your eyes.
“Men are so sensitive, Mister.” You shook your head. He let out another loud meow between bites.
“Except for you, my sweet angel. You’re perfect.” You fluffed his fur and headed in the direction Frank went, ready to finish what you’d so embarrassingly interrupted earlier.
You found him sitting on the edge of your bed, hunched over a photo album that you’d been looking through earlier and forgotten to put away.
“You didn’t tell me you were a popular kid in high school.”
You cringed, reaching for the album, but Frank was faster and taller than you, so your efforts were futile. He held the album up in the air, laughing like a maniac.
“Or that you danced!”
“Frank!” You whined, standing on your toes.
“You were so young! When was this?”
“It doesn’t matter.” You groaned, jumping in the air, still unable to reach the album above you.
“Were you any good?” Frank swung around, turning from your reach and cradling the album in his arms. He turned to the next page where three, shiny first place ribbons were taped together above a photo of you holding a trophy almost as tall as you. His eyebrows shot up.
“You were good. You were really good.”
You rubbed the back of your neck, cringing at the thought of him seeing photos of you when you were younger. That felt like a lifetime ago, and the girl in those photographs felt like a completely different person.
“You got any videos?” Frank asked with a toothy smile.
You crossed your arms and huffed. “I most certainly do not.”
Frank’s grin widened. “Sure, sweetheart.”
You rolled your eyes and held your hand out. He chuckled and placed the album in your arms before tapping the top of the album with his finger.
“I like learning things about you.” He paused before continuing. “Even if I have to accidentally snoop to find them out.”
“You do?” You could feel the heat returning to your cheeks. He always managed to make you feel like a bashful schoolgirl, even when he wasn’t trying to.
“Yeah.” He bobbed his head once in confirmation. He lowered himself onto your bed, and after a moment, added, “No wonder you’re so,” he paused, clearing his throat, “bendy.”
You grinned widely as he tried to subtly look you up and down. In a single sentence, he’d managed to heat the room up to 100 degrees, and suddenly the ache in your core was impossible to ignore. The heat in his gaze traveled over your body, lingering on the base of your hips, almost as if he could see how wet you were. It burned through you.
You lurched forward, straddling him so quickly that you heard his breath hitch in his throat. You brought your lips next to his ear, noting the way his skin broke out in goosebumps as you breathed on to his neck.
“You wanna know a secret?”
Frank’s hands made their way around your thighs, gripping them with brute strength as he tensed.
“Yeah, baby.” He murmured with a barely discernible nod.
“I’m not wearing any underwear.”
Frank’s entire being froze before a wide grin spread across his face.
“You took out a sector of the mob, choked a man out with your thighs, and you weren’t wearing any underwear the entire time? I don’t know if I should be horny or jealous.”
You smirked, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his throat. “Why not both?”
He grunted as you ground into him, and apparently decided he’d had enough, because in a swift, fluid motion, he flipped both of you over, placing you on your back as he inched his way down your body. He pulled the waistband of your pants down, revealing your unclothed pussy, and bit his bottom lip, groaning at the sight of it. He’d never get tired of seeing it – touching it – tasting it.
“Baby, you have no idea what you do to me.”
He looked at you with a mixture of awe and lust, and you instinctively spread your legs wider to give him easier access. He licked his lips, falling to his elbows and hovering so closely above you that you could feel the tickle of his breath against your clit.
He ran a finger through your slick folds, playing with the wetness that he found pooling there. When he lightly brushed over your clit, you couldn’t stop the yelp from coming out of your mouth. He huffed a breath, sending heat over your clit, which morphed your outburst into a sultry moan.
“Something wrong, sweetheart?”
You were lying flat on your back, eyes rolling into the back of your head, and pointedly not looking at how incredibly hot he was with his head buried between your thighs, but you could hear the smirk in his voice as he teased you.
“Frank.” You whispered, lifting your hips closer to his lips.
“Yes, dove?” He played coy so prettily, especially as he pressed a gentle kiss to the apex of your core.
“T-touch me. Please.”
“All you had to do was ask, pretty girl.”
Before you could offer a retort to his incredulous sarcasm, his tongue was between your legs, and you couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone offer a verbal response. He mapped out your core with his tongue, circling your clit with an expertise that still surprised you, even though he’d proven to you many times how skilled he was with his mouth.
“Oh sh-shit, Frank,” you whined, arching your back.
He attacked your mound hungrily, like it was his last day on Earth, and you were his last meal. His tongue swiped over your entrance, coating his mouth with your intense wetness. He smiled as he prodded the hole with his tongue, determined to drink as much of you as he could.
“You want my fingers, baby?” He prompted, emphasizing his question with a subtle suck on your clit.
“Fuck yes, Frankie. Please.” You whined, tears pricking behind your tightly closed eyes. You were already so close. As soon as he pushed his fingers into you, you’d be-
You were clenching around his fingers before you could finish the thought, erupting into an intense orgasm that had you crying out. He pumped his fingers in and out of you while he sucked on your clit, drawing out the pleasure in your body. For a moment, you couldn’t figure out where your pleasure began and ended, only focused on the way Frank seemed to know exactly how to lengthen your orgasms beyond what you were used to.
It’d been that way since you’d slept with him the very first time, and you had half convinced yourself that it was a fluke until he did it again thirty minutes later. Frank was a talented man, and you probably didn’t even know the half of it yet.
“You always taste so good, baby.” He mumbled, still pumping his fingers in and out of you at a leisurely pace.
You were a panting, incoherent mess underneath him, and he loved it. He reveled in watching you come apart, and if he had it his way, he’d do it to you repeatedly, all day, every day of the week.
He continued pumping his fingers in and out of your cunt, entranced by the slickness you’d spilled all over his fingers. The way your pussy fluttered around his hand, combined with the noises you were making as you inched closer to a second orgasm, were enough to bring a man to his knees.
“Frankie,” you cried, breathing erratically, “’m gonna cum.”
“Good, baby.” He breathed, beginning to arch his fingers towards the spot that would send you toppling over the edge. “Cum for me, sweet girl. Wanna feel it.”
The knot deep in your belly began to unravel at the sound of his gravelly voice commanding you to cum. When his fingertips brushed over the spot deep inside of you, you nearly screamed, completely falling apart underneath him. Your eyes rolled back as he finger-fucked you through the earth-shattering orgasm. Your legs, which he’d propped on his shoulders for easy access earlier, shook fiercely.
He pressed gentle kisses onto your calf and ankle as you slowly came back to Earth, a soothing gesture that grounded you more than he knew. When you were finally coherent enough to open your eyes, he slowly stood from his stooped position, lightly setting your legs on the mattress.
In a firm, but still somehow soft motion, he turned you on to your front, and you instinctively knew how to arrange yourself after that. Without prompting from him, you bent your knees underneath you, preening forward to rest your forehead on the mattress. You arched your back, clenching your toes in anticipation as he shuffled around the room.
The sound of the condom wrapper being split open made your pussy flutter in delight, and Frank chuckled as you subtly shook your hips in eagerness.
“Ready, sweet girl?” He asked, running his hands over your bare ass before lightly slapping it.
You had to stop yourself from mumbling the words ‘I was born ready’. You were, but it sounded desperate, and you couldn’t give him all the power here.
“Please, Frankie.” You mewled, slowly swaying your hips, “Please fuck me.”
He pressed into you, sliding until he was completely surrounded by your pussy. You both groaned in unison as he stretched you out, waiting until you pressed yourself back against him – your way of saying move.
He thrusted into you in a steady rhythm, drilling so deeply that you had to clench the comforter in your hands. Sex between the two of you had always felt right, like a deeper connection was being made every time you allowed vulnerability to squeeze its way into your relationship. It was a give and take, a push and a pull, a dance between two people who were so right for each other, even though they frequently did morally wrong things. You were convinced you’d never had proper sex until you met Frank, and he was more than happy to prove that to you.
“Fuck, sweetheart.” He grunted, digging his fingers into your hips. “So. Fucking. Wet.”
He thrusted after each word to emphasize his statement. You preened at the animalistic pace he set. The air was filled with breathy moans and skin connecting with skin, interspersed with Frank’s quiet grunts as he pushed himself closer and closer to the edge.
When you arched your back even further, pushing your upper body into the mattress to give him even deeper access, his thrusts faltered. He paused for a moment, and then began thrusting into you harder and faster than before. It didn’t take long before he shuttered against you, cumming so hard that he nearly collapsed on top of you. He just barely had the wherewithal to catch himself, and he spent at least a minute and a half standing in that hunched position, panting over you.
When he pulled out, you shuttered, turning over so you could watch him walk to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. He returned with a warm, damp washcloth, and you tried not to get caught staring at his god-like body as he moved toward you. Frank was a confident man, but the way you gazed at him sometimes made him nervous. You stared at him like he was your endgame, and while that idea actually tended to excite him, the way you drooled over him made his cock twitch, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to satiate your lust.
“Hell of a date night.” You breathed as he wiped you clean.
He grinned, tossing the towel in the hamper before flopping down onto his stomach, watching you with gleaming eyes. You met his gaze, turning your head so that your noses were inches apart.
“Thanks for the date, handsome.” You grinned.
“Anything for you, baby. Did you have fun?”
“Too much fun. I want to do it all over again.” You brought your finger up to his nose, lightly flicking it.
“Oh, I think that can be arranged, sweetheart.” He teased, matching your smile.
“You think so?”
“Definitely.” He smiled a genuine smile, and you melted.
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I want frank to fuck my brains away like I really want him to make me stupid. could you write some dumbification with the punisher to fuil my obsession. 🤤🤤🤤
dumbification is my favourite makes me fucking drool so of course I have to post this.
tags: frank castle, dumbification, daddy kink, praise, semi? public sex, mentions of toxicity/ not from frank, overstimulation, essentially strangers.
The hum of the industrial refrigerator is the only thing keeping you company—a low, vibrating drone that seems to rattle right through the soles of your worn-out heels.
It’s 3:14 AM. The air inside the diner is freezing, the ancient heating unit overhead doing nothing but blowing a thin, lukewarm draft that dies before it ever reaches the floor. You shiver, pulling the sleeves of your stained shirt over your hands, your knuckles raw and red from the ice-cold dishwater.
Every muscle in your body aches with a deep, heavy exhaustion. Your lower back throbs from hours of pacing the greasy, stained linoleum. Your eyes burn, feeling like someone rubbed sand into them. You’ve been on your feet since yesterday afternoon, and the night shift has a way of stretching time until minutes feel like hours.
Under the harsh, flickering buzz of the yellowing fluorescent lights, the diner has a way of looking abandoned. The cheap vinyl booths are cracked, casting long, distorted shadows across the empty tables.
It’s mostly quiet, save for the sparse, depressing clientele of the dead-of-night crowd. Over in the corner booth, a tired trucker stares blankly into a mug of lukewarm, burnt coffee, his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the highway was crushing him. A few stools down at the counter, a guy in a grease-stained jacket slowly traces the rim of his glass, looking like he has nowhere else in the world to go, letting the smoke of his cigarette glide into the air and cling to the damp, cold windows.
You sigh, the sound lost in the vast, empty space of the restaurant. You grab a damp rag to wipe down the counter for the hundredth time, your movements slow and robotic. The smell of old grease, stale tobacco clinging to the curtains, and the sharp bite of cheap bleach fills your nose.
You hate this uniform. You hate these stupid shoes that dig into the soles of your feet like nails. Your stupid manager constantly demands you look "pretty" for the customers even though he almost never actually shows up unless it's to complain about your "shitty service"—like that’s the issue, and not the fact that this place has an ecosystem of mold growing in almost every room. You're expected to work the night shift on your own for the third week in a row and run around after the losers that come in here night after night with a smile.
A sharp ding rings through the room, making you look up toward the door from the counter you are dragging your cloth against.
A man steps in, letting the door slam shut behind him. He walks over to the counter and sits on a stool, keeping his head down and resting his heavy arms on the worn laminate.
"Can I get anything for you, sir?" you ask quietly, not wanting to disturb him more than necessary.
His broad shoulders tense, his large hands balling into fists. "Coffee, black," he grunts.
You nod politely and head into the back to brew a fresh pot. The machine starts buzzing loudly, sending vibrations through the floor. Then, it starts gargling. With a sudden, loud bang, a plume of gray smoke rises from the lid.
"Shit... shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!" you curse, hitting the side of the metal machine.
You stand there, glaring at this sad excuse for electronics, and let out a defeated sigh. How are you going to explain this to the grumpy men sitting just behind the wall? Stepping out of the kitchen, your hands tremble slightly with a nervous hope that they won't kick your head in.
"I'm really sorry, guys. Erm... the coffee machine just bro—"
Before you can even finish your sentence, the tired trucker stands up, scowling, and storms out into the freezing night.
"—broke," you finish, your voice trailing off. You look at the man in the grease-stained jacket, then back to the tall newcomer. "However... if either of you wanna take a crack at fixing it... go ahead, I guess. I'll put some coffee on the stove, but it'll take... longer."
You scuff the linoleum with the front of your heel, the silence echoing through the room. Unsurprisingly, the man in the grease-stained jacket slides off his stool and slips out too, leaving his glass behind.
You turn back and head into the kitchen. Your hands are shaking slightly from the anxiety of the night. Lighting a match, you chuck it onto the stove and place a metal pot on top.
then, you hear the sound of the kitchen doors swinging open behind you, forcing you to turn away from the warmth of the newly lit fire.
You turn around, half-expecting the guy in the grease-stained jacket to have changed his mind, but instead, it’s the tall newcomer.
Up close, he is even more massive than he looked from across the counter. He has to duck his head slightly to clear the low-hanging doorframe of the kitchen, his broad shoulders practically filling the narrow, fluorescent-lit space. He’s wearing a heavy, dark jacket, and his face is partially shadowed by the brim of his cap.
You grip the handle of the cold metal pot a little tighter, suddenly realizing how small you are compared to him. "Oh," you breathe, your voice a little raspy from the cold. "You... actually want to take a look at it?"
The man stops a few feet away, keeping his hands in his pockets. He looks at the smoking, ruined coffee machine, then slowly looks over at you.
When he raises his head, the harsh kitchen light catches his face. He looks rugged, with a heavy five o'clock shadow and a faint, faded scar near his temple. He looks like a man who has seen his fair share of rough nights. But as his dark eyes lock onto yours, his hard expression softens slightly. There’s a sudden quiet in the air as he watches you intensely, his eyes slowly gliding down your body.
"Said you needed a hand," he grunts. His voice is a deep, rough gravelly rumble, but he speaks so quietly it's almost a whisper. "Used to do some mechanical work. Simple enough to check the heating element."
"Right. Yeah. Thanks," you mumble, slowly letting go of the pot and pouring the coffee grounds into the water. The rich scent of dark roast slowly begins to fill the damp, cold air.
"This place is a dump," Frank grunts from below, the clinking of metal tools echoing in the quiet room. "Manager ought to be shot for letting a lady work in a freezer like this."
A dry, bitter laugh escapes your chest before you can stop it. "Tell me about it. My manager doesn't care. He's probably asleep in his warm bed right now. Meanwhile, I've got to stand here in these..." You stop yourself, looking down at your cheap, stupid heels that are currently throbbing with a dull ache.
Frank pauses his work. He slowly stands back up, holding a dusty screwdriver. His eyes immediately trail down to your feet, then back up to your face. The furrow in his brow deepens, looking almost angry—but it's a protective, possessive kind of anger.
"He makes you wear those?" Frank asks, his voice dropping an octave, a dangerous edge sliding into his tone. "To run around on greasy floors for eight hours?"
"Yeah," you sigh, leaning your hip against the counter, suddenly feeling the weight of your exhaustion crushing you. "Says it makes the diner look 'pretty.' Says customers like it."
Frank lets out a low noise of disgust. He steps closer, closing the distance between you until you can smell the faint scent of rain, leather, and cheap cologne on him. He towers over you, but his hands remain gentle as he gestures toward the prep chair where his jacket is.
"Sit down," he says softly.
"I have to watch the stove—"
"I'll watch the stove," Frank interrupts, his dark eyes glaring at you intensely, practically demanding you to let him help. "Please, sweetheart. Sit. Let me look at the machine, and you rest your feet."
The word sweetheart rolls off his tongue so naturally it makes a strange, fluttering sensation spark in your stomach. You look at his huge, intimidating frame, deciding to let him help.
Slowly, hesitatingly, you walk over to the chair and sit down with a loud sigh. "I'm not supposed to be sitting on company time. My manager watches the camera to make sure I'm not slacking. He's probably gonna kill me for this," you say, resting your elbow on the metal counter and letting your head sink into the palm of your hand.
His eyes drift up to the flickering camera, the air going thick for a moment. Without a word, he walks over and jams the metallic end of the screwdriver directly into the glass dome. It shatters with a sharp crack, and he shoves the broken casing to the side, letting it flop uselessly to face the top of a cabinet.
"Let's see him try," he grumbles.
He walks back over and kneels in front of the broken machine again, the fabric of his shirt stretching tight across his massive shoulders as he goes to work. The steady, rhythmic clink-clink of metal tools and the hum of the blue flame on the stove are the only sounds in the cramped kitchen.
"So, you got a name?" you ask quietly.
"Frank," he responds bluntly still clattering away with the mashine.
From your chair, you have no choice but to watch him. The heat from his discarded jacket draped over your lap is heavy and warm. Between that deep warmth and the exhaustion dragging at your limbs, your brain starts to slow down, your eyes fluttering closed every so often.
"So," you murmur, your voice sounding small even to your own ears. "You always go around fixing coffee machines for strangers at three in the morning?"
Frank pauses. He slowly turns his head, looking at you over his shoulder. Up close, his dark eyes are incredibly intense, heavy-lidded and tracking the way you're slumped in the chair.
"Only for pretty girls who look like they're about to collapse," he murmurs with a raspy chuckle.
Your cheeks instantly flare with heat. Normally, a comment like that from a strange man in a dark diner would make your guard go up. But under his heavy, unblinking gaze, your mind just... stumbles. Pretty girl. The words ring in your ears, feeling strangely heavy. You try to think of a witty, sarcastic comeback—something to show him you aren't that easy—but your brain feels like it's trying to run through wet cement.
"I'm not... I'm not that pretty," you mumble, the defense weak and childish.
Frank stops working entirely. He lays the screwdriver down with a quiet clatter and stands up. He towers over you, his massive frame completely cutting off the light from the stove. The sheer size of him is overwhelming, making you feel incredibly delicate, tiny, and fragile sitting in that metal chair.
He steps closer, until the tips of his heavy boots are almost touching the heels of your stupid, painful shoes.
"Yes, you are," he rumbles, his voice dropping into a low, commanding register that seems to vibrate right through your skin. "Don't say things like that about yourself. You're so pretty, sweetheart... even covered in dishwater and grease."
Your breath catches in your throat. You stare up at him, your mouth parting slightly. The room suddenly feels incredibly hot. The steam from the boiling pot on the stove is rising, wrapping around you, making the air thick and heavy. Or maybe it’s just him. He is so big. So warm.
But the closeness doesn't last for long. He turns away, going back to silently working on the machine. You trail off in thought, hypnotized, watching the muscles in his broad back stretch while he works. You stretch out and yawn, hearing the water suddenly bubble over. You start to stand to turn off the heat, but a heavy voice cuts through the steam.
"No. Sit," he demands, dropping the screwdriver on the floor beside him and quickly standing. "I said I got it, understand?"
He grumbles, sliding in between you and the stove. His large back completely blocks the flame from you, and a sudden draft of cold hits your face at the loss of the fire. The click of the stove turning off and the clank of the coffee pot leaving the burner are dulled by the wall of muscle only inches from your face.
He shuffles past you, grabbing two ceramic mugs from the rack, and places them down, filling each with the boiling coffee.
"You take milk?" he questions quietly, placing the pot on the hot plate.
"You're the customer, I should be doing this stuff," you say with a weak giggle, feeling your skin flush from his sheer presence and his quiet, commanding kindness.
You don't think you've ever met a man like this before. Most customers in this dump would slap you on the ass as you walked past, or shout at you for not cooking them a huge meal even though the kitchen closed at 9:00 PM. But Frank... something about him makes you completely relax. The radiating warmth of his body, the way he speaks to you with such calm confidence—it makes all the walls you spent years building up simply crumble.
It’s slightly scary, how vulnerable you feel. Your body is too tired to run, your brain too fixated on the way his fingers move, the way his muscles tense, the way his scent has completely filled the small room to even care. You can feel yourself already weakening, your mind slowing down, getting comfortable.
"Milk, yes or no?" he asks again, placing the mugs down in front of you.
The sharp clink of the ceramic hitting the metal counter snaps you out of your daze.
"B-black's... fine..." Your words are slow, dragged out.
His warm, heavy hand gently touches your cheek. "You're cold. Drink up while it's still hot," he says, looking intensely into your eyes.
Your lips part slightly, your breath quickening. The dry, rough feel of his calloused thumb against your cold, sensitive skin sends a sharp, tingling jolt straight down your spine. Your eyes flutter, a soft, helpless whimper escaping your throat before you can catch it.
Your brain completely glitches. The thought of your manager, the cameras, the freezing diner—it all just dissolves, leaving nothing but the heavy sensation of his hand on your skin.
"You're shakin'," he observes, his voice thick and possessive. His thumb strokes your cheekbone again, and you find yourself leaning your head into his touch, your mind going completely quiet. There is a silence for what seems like forever, nothing but the warmth of his touch swimming through your mind.
"So soft. Just a sweet, pretty little thing, aren't you?" he says quietly.
You realize he can probably see exactly how much you're enjoying this, but you don't think you care all that much anymore. You nod slowly, looking him in the eyes, letting your mouth fall slightly more open. His thumb, which had been sliding against your cheek, glides further across to brush the corner of your lips.
"You like that, hmm? Open your mouth for me a bit more, sweetheart," he says, moving even closer until the tips of his heavy boots align with your heels. His hand shifts, cupping your jaw firmly while his thumb slides across your lower lip.
"Sss-bbs-sw...?" you babble, letting out a few small, helpless noises. You aren't quite sure of your own words anymore as your mouth falls open naturally.
"Such a good girl for me. Let me take care of you, okay? Do you understand, sweetheart?" he says, a dark, pleased smile spreading across his lips.
He pushes the tip of his thumb into your mouth, pressing it against your tongue, slowly swiping the saliva that has built up there.
"Close," he orders, his gentle voice drawing out the word.
You let your lips lock around his thumb, the swirling saliva being played with, pushing the last remaining thoughts right out of your head. You gently start to suck, the taste of metal and salt filling your mouth.
"Oh, sweetheart... you're doing so good. I didn't even have to ask," he smirks. His free hand gently plays with your hair, twirling the strands around his thick, scarred fingers.
With a slow, deliberate pull, he tugs his thumb out of your mouth with a soft pop, letting a thin string of saliva drip down your chin. He carefully wipes the wetness from your face with the back of his hand.
"Fuck, baby doll. I didn't think this is what would be happening tonight."
His hand pushes through your hair, angling your head up so you have no choice but to look at him. Heat rushes through your body, pooling into a pit of desperation in your stomach. He carefully grips your waist, his strength effortless as he lifts you to sit on the prep table, making you much easier to access.
His large hands move back to your face, cupping the sides of your head, completely framing your face.
"So pretty... so, so pretty... You want me to touch you? You want that, baby girl?"
His face is so close to yours that his breath hot on your lips makes your entire body flutter. You nod. It's barely a movement, but a nod nonetheless.
"You seemed so confident earlier," he whispers, a teasing rumble in his chest. "Where's all that gone, mhm? Not a single thought behind those eyes now."
He slides his hand down, moving under your crumpled skirt. You let out a high, needy whine as his thick fingers press against your underwear, instantly finding the wet patch that is growing by the second.
"I wanna keep you, sweet girl... look after you. Let your pretty moans be the only thing I hear when I get home. You want that? Let Daddy take care of you."
You lean back slightly, pushing your weight helplessly against his hand, nodding over and over. You find yourself grinding against the tough pads of his fingers, getting entirely too needy, too desperate.
His other hand moves to your collar, slowly undoing the top few buttons of your shirt to reveal your bra.
"Oh, princess. That looks so pretty."
He leans down, his lips grazing small, warm kisses across your sensitive skin.
"Pl-ppp-pllleee~ mhhhh....~ mhhh," a litter of pathetic, broken whines leaves your mouth, taunting him, begging him for more.
Just as you start to find a rhythm, pushing your weight against his palm, the heat vanishes. Frank pulls his hand back, leaving you completely exposed to the freezing kitchen air. You whimper, a cold shiver racking your body as the damp draft hits your wet underwear. You reach for him, your clumsy hands clutching at his chest, but he gently pins your wrists to the metal table.
"Nooo~" you cry out, tears filling your eyes, the words coming out way more pathetic than intended.
"No? Oh, so you can speak. You gotta be patient for me, sweet girl," he mocks.
You wriggle against his restraint. "Come on, baby doll, you gotta talk for me. I need to know this is what you want. Tell me what you want me to do to you." His voice is low, but his tone is sickly sweet. You whine again, this time in frustration, a single tear rolling down your cheek, pouting like it'll change his mind.
He pulls both your wrists together gently to hold them with one hand, reaching with the other to wipe the tear away.
"Don't cry, baby, it's okay... I'll take care of you. I just need you to tell me what you want," he comforts, letting go of you again, this time releasing your arms too.
He moves back, grabbing your ankle and slowly sliding the cheap heel from your foot, then doing it again with the other, leaving you in your socks as the worn footwear clatters to the floor.
"That feel better?" he asks, sliding his hands up and down the bottoms of your feet, then up the back of your aching calves.
You let out a sigh of relief, feeling the pain dulling. Your brain is so fogged up you struggle to remember why they were hurting in the first place. You try telling him what you want, the muscles in your mouth feeling useless, the words coming out as pathetic noises.
"P-please mo—ugh, more." The words come out stretched and muffled.
He wraps his hand around your jaw, squishing your cheeks. "You want more, sweetheart? Tell me what you want. Use your words."
You try. You really try. "P-pl... p-pleee..."
"Please what, baby girl?" he coos, his other hand gently tracing the thick of your inner thigh. "Pretty girls ask nicely. What do you want Daddy to do?"
Your mind is totally blank. The only thing in your head is the warmth of his skin and the desperate throb between your thighs. You can't think of the word. You just whine, shaking your head.
"Well, I can't help you then... can I?" he chuckles, the skin around his eyes crinkling.
You try scooting yourself toward the edge of the table, desperate for the feeling to return, desperate for him to bury his cock inside of you.
"Please, f-fuck m-me, please, please," you whine, finally managing to get the words out.
He smiles. "See, baby doll? All you had to do is ask."
He slides your underwear down, unhooking it from one leg and letting it dangle from one foot. He pulls you forward enough to let you lie back, your hair pillowing your head against the counter. He pushes your skirt up, crumbling it around your waist.
"...Such a pretty pussy. If you hadn't asked so nicely, I’d devour you right on this table, sweetheart," he groans, letting his thick fingers explore you, making you shiver and whimper.
Suddenly, his head snaps up toward the swinging doors. His arms bracket your head on the table in a protective, commanding stance. He leans down real close, his hot breath brushing your ear.
"Shhh... shh, baby girl. Someone just walked in."
You hear his words, but they don't quite register. Your brain is too busy spiraling, the cold kitchen air making your sensitive skin break out in goosebumps. You just watch, dazed, as he disappears through the swinging doors.
There’s a brief mumble of voices on the other side of the wall. A harsh, low rumble from Frank, followed by the sound of the front door chime ringing again as the customer quickly thinks better of it and leaves.
Just as quickly as he disappeared, Frank strides back into the kitchen. He is aggressively pulling his belt off with a metallic clank, his zipper trailing down.
"Asshole..." he grunts, his jaw clenched in pure, protective anger. "If those are the kinds of dudes you have to deal with every night, I swear to God I'm never letting you step foot in this dump again."
His quiet ranting phases out as he steps between your thighs. Your brain completely blocks out his words, focusing entirely on the excruciatingly hot sensation of his thick tip rubbing up and down your entrance.
Your desperate, needy whines instantly snap him out of his anger. His eyes trail over your flushed, helpless face, and his expression softens completely. His free hand slides up under your shirt, his warm palm rubbing your tummy softly to soothe your shaking body.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Daddy got a bit angry for a second there," he whispers, his voice thick. "Back to your pretty face. How's that feel?"
You can't even answer. You just beg, repeating "please" over and over because it’s the only word your melted brain can conjure.
He slides inside you. It’s an incredibly tight, heavy fit, and you can feel your body stretching to accommodate him. Slowly, he slips almost all the way back out, leaving only the leaking tip inside before bucking deep into you again. His pace is steady and demanding, his large hands wrapping securely under your hips to hold you in place as he drives you against the metal table.
Your hands reach up, grabbing onto his thick biceps, your fingernails digging into his skin as you try to anchor yourself. You whimper and moan, filling the gaps in the quiet kitchen with pathetic, slurred pleases, completely desperate for your orgasm.
He keeps fucking into you, grunting and groaning as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge.
"You wanna cum, sweet thing?" he asks, watching your eyes roll back.
You nod frantically. "Please... please... ughhh, please, please... mhhhggmmm..."
You can't focus. The feeling of him pushing in and out of you has rendered your mind entirely useless. You are right on the cliff. Your moans get louder, echoing in the empty diner, your legs trembling helplessly against his sides.
"Fuck... you look so pretty like this," he groans.
His words are the final thread snapping, tumbling you over the edge into a crashing, blinding orgasm. You twitch and shake beneath him, your mind completely white. He keeps fucking you right through your climax, his own breath catching as he follows you over, groaning loud as he buries himself as deep as he can go and fills you.
Your head is completely empty. The room is spinning in your dazed, overstimulated state.
Frank rests his forehead against yours for a moment, catching his breath, before slowly pulling out. You let out a weak whimper at the loss of him.
"You did so well for me, sweetheart," he whispers, kissing your sweaty forehead. He pulls up his jeans and fastens his belt, his eyes never leaving you.
He looks down at your ruined, stained uniform, then at the cheap, painful heels sitting abandoned on the floor. His eyes darken with a quiet resolve.
"You wanna leave this place?" he asks, his voice quiet but intense.
You nod breathlessly, completely incapable of making a decision for yourself.
"Good girl." Gently, he unbuttons your uniform shirt himself, sliding it off your arms with tender care. He grabs a clean paper towel from the dispenser to gently wipe you down, keeping you comfortable, before chucking the ruined shirt and those stupid, painful heels directly into the trash bin.
He wraps his massive, warm jacket around your bare shoulders, zipping it up so it covers your body almost completely like a giant blanket. He scoops you up into his arms, lifting your weight effortlessly against his chest.
You let your heavy head sink into his shoulder, closing your eyes as he carries his pretty, silent doll out of the freezing diner and into the night.
entry for my fall frenzy requests
this request comes in from @superblysubpar:
'there's a scenario with bookstore / library date AND a dialogue prompt that says "what are you reading?"' with steve harrington
summary: it's 1990. you're on the opening shift at the bookstore you work at, only to be surprised at a newcomer claiming to be up for an interview for the open barista position in the cafe at the back. sort of put off to start, it's no surprise when things start to bloom over time, and i'm not talking about coffee grounds. tl;dr carol writes a mini romcom.
tw: minors dni, there's nothing too out of whack in this one but i still don't want minors in here. reader is a little sassy but also like, pretty normal overall.
That damn key jams every time it rains -- doesn't help that you left your umbrella at home. Doesn't help that the 'light mist' turned into a heavy downpour the closer you made it to the book store. Doesn't help that you had to park a street over because of street cleaning and had to walk a block in the rain.
Now the damn key.
"Come on," you grumble, jiggling an wiggling to no avail. Insert, r-insert, slight tilt to the right, jiggle, pull out a little, turn a little left and then -- nothing. You take the key out only for it to fall to the ground with a fairy like tinkling.
"Come -- the fuck -- on," you nearly growl under your breath while your coat gets heavier and heavier with rain, hood soaking through and dripping water onto your face. You bend down to get the key with a sigh meant for people with back pain, coming back up again to see the coffee bar manager on the other side of the glass door. He chuckles, salt and pepper beared thick over his chin and cheeks. Ruddy skin beams red even in the cool grey light of the morning, 30 years a butcher who pivoted into coffee when he turned fifty and had a really good knack for it.
"Easy morning?"
"Does it look like one, Carl?" you ask, stepping in when he opens the door. He laughs again, a hearty belly laugh that might as well have transported him into a Santa suit in December.
"What happened to you?" he asks, following you into the back room where you start putting your stuff in your cubby. You switch out your wet sneakers and socks for the platform loafers and knee highs in your bag. Now that the fall weathers hit, it's all corduroy and knit sweaters, circle skirts and tall socks. If you're going to be on your fifth year working at an idyllic bookstore, you might as well look the part.
"Weather app lied, street cleaning, forgot an umbrella," you shrug, "Just another manic Monday, y'know?"
"I know," he nods, "Gimme one second."
Carl comes back with a white paper cup and black lid that makes you smile from the inside out, "Is that what I think it is?"
"Isn't it always?" he smiles, "I got it ready the second I saw you on the schedule. Caramel latte, hint of cinnamon. Since its -- ya know, fall officially, I put a little maple in there, too."
"You spoil me," you sigh, taking the cup from him and letting the warmth radiate through your hands.
"I do," he nods, "But, that latte was the last of my regular milk so I need to run out and grab a few gallons before we open up. You okay to be hangin' out by yourself?"
You nod, of course you're okay to be hanging out by yourself. You take the first sip, letting the caramel flood your tongue. The maple is a good addition. You're about to tell Carl to add this to the seasonal menu but he's already out the break room door with his coat before you can. You hear the jingle of the bell and the lock of the door and eventually the silence settling into the store around you.
You start to re-organize the window display which should've been done last night but 'last night you' said that 'this morning you' could handle it. You wish you could punch last night you in the face, but this is what you get for taking an assistant manager position.
You stack the back to school reads next to your knees where you're sat on them. The dust billows when you move them, making you sneeze with each turn of your head. You rub at your eyes, realizing at that very moment that the mascara you put on this morning has now definitely smudged -- you can't even find the emotional capacity to check considering the store opens in forty five minutes.
You wipe down the display shelves, letting the oak gleam under the spot lights. The color is a warm reminder of the cozy moments to come the way that they do this time of year. As you start separating the 'cozy reads' from your 'spooky reads' in the pile on the other side of your knees you hear a knocking at the door --that's not very like Carl to forget his key.
You look over your shoulder, not seeing Carl at all, and if it is, he had some kind of Seventeen Again magic happen to him in that time at the store. You stand up, wiping off your knees and straightening your skirt before getting to the door where the rapping continues against the glass.
"We aren't open yet!" you call out.
"M'here for Carl!" you hear, muffled through the panes.
"For the barista spot?" you yell back. The guy nods under his hood, the rain picking up in heavy sheets. You sigh, unlocking the door and letting him in.
"Carl's not here, he ran out to get some more milk but um, you're welcome to wait in the break room if you want," you explain, wiping a palm over another display through the main hallway and wiping the dust off on your hip.
"Thanks," he says, hood coming down to reveal a head full of thick chestnut hair. A gold ring shines on the the hand that runs through it, looks like a family crest type, right on his middle finger.
"I'm Steve," he says with a smile, hand now outstretched to take yours. You look at it and then at him, finally taking in the sight before you. Prominent straight nose, warm amber eyes, lips that definitely use chapstick regularly. He has a nice smile, the kind you read about in the romance novels in the back of the store, the kind people write about.
You take his hand and introduce yourself, he has a business major handshake and you only know that because you dated a handful of them back in college. You try to stifle a chuckle but it comes out airily out of your nose.
"Something funny?" he asks when you both let go.
"No, no, sorry, I just thought of something from the other day," you shake your head, "Don't worry about it."
He nods, taking off his coat and closing his umbrella following your lead to the back, "It's a cute place."
"Yeah, it's nice in the morning," you nod, "I normally close but -- doing a favor for a key holder today; so you have the pleasure of seeing the troll of the store in her natural habitat."
"What?"
"Nothing -- nevermind," you shake your head, cheeks burning with a wave of embarrassment when you look back and notice that he's genuinely very handsome.
You get to the break room, pointing out the spare cubby where he can hang his coat and umbrella. He's in a sweater you swear you've seen on the Cosby Show -- dark green and patterned, a perfect combination of colors against his skin. It cuffs at the wrists, you can see a sliver of his white t-shirt underneath at the collar, a whisper of a gold chain tucked beneath it.
"Yeah um," you start, feeling your heart start to patter in your chest when he takes a seat at the table by the cabinets, "You can just wait here. I'll let Carl know when he comes back."
"Okay," he smiles, "Thanks."
You nod again, heading into the employee bathroom to collect yourself for a moment -- seeing your reflection. You forgot you had rubbed your eyes, masacra smudged in black smears nearly down to your cheeks.
"I look insane," you whisper in horror, "Oh my fucking god."
You cover your face for a moment, trying to hide yourself from the embarrassment racking your chest. Definitely looking like the troll of the store, you silently scream into your palms, another dramatic whisper of, "I should just fucking kill myself."
Despite the humiliation, you know it's funny. This would happen to you. This hot guy would come in when your mascaras a mess and your hair is fucked up from the rain, when the weather is bad and your tights have a run, when your allergies are rampant from the dust. Of course he would!
You wet a paper towel and do your best to wipe off the smudges, happy to look a little less insane after a dab of tinted lip balm makes it onto your lips and cheeks.
When you re-emerge he's fiddling with his CD player and his over ear headphones, working on a knot in the wire. You go back over to the counter and take a sip of your forgotten latte.
"What do you drink?" he asks.
"Carl makes it special for me, it's not on the menu," you tell him over the black plastic top before taking another sip.
He grins, a soft nod moving his hair with him -- so it's like that.
"I didn't ask if it was on the menu. I asked what you drink," he says, leaning back in the chair. His eyes lingering on you sends a zip up your spine, wondering if he's giving you a once over or not.
"It's a caramel latte with maple and cinnamon," you tell him. His confidence both intruiges and enrages you, both making you want to tell him to get out but also learn more about this hot guy that wants to be a barista with a Wall Street handshake, "So why do you wanna work here?"
"Is this the start of my interview?" he laughs.
"No, I'm just wondering," you shrug.
"I'm back in school about twenty minutes away," he says, "Did it for a little when I was in high school -- coffee, I mean. Ice cream shop after that, video store after that. Went to school, took a break, back in it. My dad thinks having jobs like this builds y'know -- character and whatever."
"Jobs like this?" you ask, jaw tensing with annoyance.
"Like, y'know, jobs with the people," he tries to explain, pink building on his cheeks when he realizes he might've said something shitty, "They're not like bad jobs, that's not what I mean -- I mean like, y'know -- not suits kind of jobs. Regular shit."
"Regular shit," you nod, biting back what you wanna say. That gold crest ring should've been enough to tip you off, but your next question is the ace in the hole, "What're you back in school for?"
"Getting my MBA."
Of course.
"Nice," you lie, fake smiling into your next sip -- the latte going cold as your insides when you come to the conclusion that he's just some hot grade A asshole, "Well, good luck."
"Thanks," he calls out while you make your way back to the floor, "I really like your name, by the way! It suits you."
You try not to let that compliment change your mind.
He gets the job, but you don't see him a lot. He opens an then goes to classes at night, you close most of the time -- only catching him really in the first hour of your shift and the last hour of his. You're both too busy to be finding time to talk; him with his mid-shift clean and you with your hourly sales goals and mid-day schedule re-adjustments.
But he does wave when you come in. He calls out your name when you bustle past the coffee counter and weave through the tables to get to where you need to go. It's nice of him, you guess, but the stain of him explaining that the job he's doing is just for regular people taints it for you. Maybe he thinks you're just some menial worker bee that he only knows for now, since his daddy probably has a job lined up for him once he pays through his masters degree.
Job with a suit where the bookstore will be a distant memory for him, whereas you're on a two year track to becoming the manager and likely future owner when the owners get too old to manage it. Job with a suit where he'll pass by the store and shake his head at 'how stupid it was', a 'can you believe people work there?' head toss to a coworker while he get a coffee somewhere else. Meanwhile, it's your entire life, and so are all the stories inside.
A few weeks pass and the days get a little colder, the nights starting earlier as they go. You have an opening shift that chills your bones, hugging your wool coat tight to your body while you fiddle with the key at the door, groaning at the tinkling of it hitting the concrete again.
"Rough morning?"
You look up to the door opening, seeing a pair clean white Nike Air Force 1's singaling who it is.
"It is now," you mumble, grabbing the key and bustling inside.
"Surprised to see you here," he says, following you to the back, "You're not on the schedule."
"Last minute switch up, Rochelle has a christening," you say, hanging your coat in the cubby and switching out your sneakers for platfoms again.
"Oh, nice," he grins, "So why is it a rough morning? 'Cause I'm here?"
"Sorta kinda," you shrug, "Did you alread--"
"I got sales report from yesterday on the check out desk, yes," he crosses his arms, leaning against the door frame.
"And th--"
"And the inventory report, and before you ask, yes I checked that all the milk is in stock and that we aren't low on beans. I've been here for a month, honey, I know what I'm doing," he mutters.
"Gross," you pull a face at him over your shoulder, "Don't call me honey."
He shrugs with a smirk, "Rochelle likes it."
"Can you go skulk to your caffeine den and leave me alone?" you snap, "I'm trying to open a store, here."
"Skulk, huh?"
"Too big of a word for you, Harrington?"
"You're on fire this morning," he smiles, that smile they write about.
"I kinda like it," he adds before turning out of the door and back into the warm light of the store towards the coffee bar. You swallow while you watch him leave -- I kinda like it ringing in your ears and floating down to your chest where is settles in, cozy and kind.
The reports are where he said the would be, neat and organized like he was the manager and Carl was his employee. You normally spent at least thirty minutes trying to figure out what Carl had written in chicken scratch on the forms, but Steve's sharp and elegant script was easy to read and perfectly spaced. Annoying.
Even his signature was handsome.
After you get the registers counted and ready you file the forms and mark the reports so they'll be ready for your manager when they get back in store. You check the list of what needs to be done, the chilly late October air swooping in from the cracks under the door. Your face sours while you make your way over to the coffee bar in the back, seeing Steve set up the pastry delivery in the cases on the side.
"Did you come back here to yell at me about something?" he asks, focused on the task at hand, "I got all morning."
"You didn't turn the heat on," you cross your arms, "That's like, the first thing you're supposed to do."
He scoffs quietly, shaking his head, popping back up to lean on glass of the case, "Did you read your morning report or just sit there and admire my handwriting?"
"Excuse me?" you bite back.
"Heats fucked," he shrugs, ducking back down to finishing his display, "They're sending someone to take a look at it later today."
"Whatever," you grumble, turning on your heel to go dust the front shelving and reshelf the returns from yesterday.
"Hey," he calls out, waiting for you to turn around before he continues. Your eyes catch his amber ones, sparkling with a mischief reserved for school boys who are mean to the girls they like, "You look nice today."
You look him over, sucking in your cheeks to kill the smile growing on your lips. His navy sweater hugs a bit across his chest and shoulders, giving way to billow slightly over his midsection and arms. Kahki chinos cut just at his ankles so his sneakers don't even look stupid paired with the outfit, socks just the right height to look cool and not forced. Awful.
"Yeah, you too Harrington," you agree quietly before walking away; and while you killed the smile, he was able to catch that crease in your eyes, the twitch in your shoulders. You thought that was nice, he wonders if he can make you do that again.
You head over to the back of the cafe during your break, no windows near your designated 'break chair'. It's close enough to the fireplace that it always feels like a rainy day even when it's nice outside. Now that Carl started his shift he got your drink ready to go the moment you walked over.
"Well la-di-da," Steve cocks his head when Carl walks over to greet the customer at the register, rag in his hands wiping up the pick up counter, "Expert service and you're not even gonna tip?"
"Here's a tip: leave me alone when I'm on break," you bite. Why did he have to be so handsome? Slight pink on his cheeks from the heat of the espresso and coffee machines, the lights overhead. The heat finally works again and it's almost working too well from the small bead of sweat forming above his brow.
He runs a big hand through his hair again, the same way he did when you first met him. You try to ingore the way his bicep bulges in his sleeve when his arm stretches.
His tongue runs over his teeth, settling between them for a second before looking straight at you, "Good one."
"That's what you get when you read books," you say sarcastically, "You should try it sometime."
"You should teach me," he leans over the counter, resting his chin on his palm, "Bet you're a great teacher."
You bite your tongue, pulling in your lips and squinting your eyes to keep the smile from brewing a second time. You pick up your mug and sip your latte while he crosses his arms over his chest.
"Nothing this time?" he asks, waiting for you second blow. You shake your head no, occupying your mouth with the rim.
"No?" He asks, you shake your head again, somehow glued to the spot under his stare. He slings the rag over his shoulder, still looking at you.
"Well I don't wanna keep you standing here," he teases, offering you a wink that is so soul crushingly charming you could just die, "Enjoy your break."
You've never turned around so quickly in your entire life.
The following week you take another opening shift, happy to settle into the quiet of the cafe now that the morning rush of moms, dads, students, and aspiring writers have cleared out. The fire crackles just right, the leather warmed up to your body heat while the book sucks you in further an further. Thirty minutes pass when you hear a shift infront of you, the subtle squeak of leather being sat in with a soft crunch.
"What're you reading?"
You peer over the top of the spine to see Steve sat in the chair across from you, legs open wide while he leans his forearms on his knees. His long fingers slide together, gold ring shining in the light again to remind you of who he is and where he comes from. As handsome as he is today in his black henley and white t-shirt combo you'll never quite forget the fact that some MBA bro is perched in front of you like a puppy with nowhere to go.
"Sound out the cover, that should tell you," you boredly mumble before tucking back into the chair. His fingers peak over the spine, pushing the book down from the top. He pulls the leather chintz closer to yours with ease -- of course he does.
"Or you could tell me," he says with a softness you weren't ready to hear. Your chest gets warm again, creeping up your neck to your cheeks.
"It's Pride and Prejudice."
"S'that your favorite book or something?" he asks, elbow driving into his thigh so he can rest his chin on his fist.
"One of them," you shrug, "I always read it this time of year, kind of fits the mood of the season."
"Hm," he nods, like he's really listening, "What's it about?"
"Basically," you start, thinking of a way to describe it in two sentences or less, "It's like -- hm -- it's about two people, a love story. One guy is some super rich asshole and he's a jerk because the girl isn't as rich and him. And the girl isn't from the same social standing so she's a jerk because she already assumes that he's a super rich asshole. Like...I don't know, idiots in love who are too stubborn to love each other."
"Hm," he nods again, grin splitting his face, "Interesting."
"What's your favorite book?" you ask, wanting to wipe that smug grin right off his face. His dumb handsome face with that perfect sloped nose, and eyes that look like they're looking directly into you.
"I don't have one," he shrugs.
"You have to have one," you balk, "Like, even if it's one you read in school or something."
"Hmm," he sits back up, leaning back in the chair with his hands resting just under his chest.
"You have to know how to read to run a business," you shrug.
"I know how to read, honey," he laughs, "I just don't have a favorite book."
"At least try," you ecourage, albiet annoyed. He taps his fingers on his diaphragm, one knee bouncing while he thinks about it. His shirt rides up just a smidge in the back, revealing a sliver of skin you didn't think you'd ever see.
"Shel Silverstein," he says finally, "Where the Sidewalk Ends."
"You didn't strike me as a poetry guy," you say, closing your book over your finger to hold your place.
"My mom went through this poetry phase -- and I'm my mother's son, so I had a poetry phase with her," he shrugs, "We wore that book out, think we had to get a second copy cause the first one was just like -- destroyed."
"Well that's...you know," you lean your head from side to side, "That's nice. It's cute."
"You'd know, right?" he smiles, that god damn smile Shel would write about in a new book. You'd bring back book burning just to throw it in the flames after it was published. He gets up, disappearing behind you for a moment and reappearing with your favorite green mug. He gingerly places it on the side table next to you.
"Compliments of the chef," he says, presenting it like a Michelin star meal.
You look at it, a perfect pour -- the cream rosetta leaf striking against the warm brown espresso. You can smell the caramel and maple already wafting off it, cinnamon sprinkled delicately on top.
"Um, thanks," you say quietly, taking the mug to your lips. He looks down at you eagerly when you take a sip, waiting for your reaction.
"Did you do something to it?" you ask before you take one.
"No I'm just -- damn, come on. I'm excited to see you try it," he sighs, "I worked hard on it."
"Fine, fine," you murmur, letting the latte flood onto your tongue. Its -- regrettably -- one of the best iterations of you've had in a while. The perfect creaminess without being too milky, enough caramel and maple without being too sweet, the espresso's bitterness cuts the sugar in just the right way to make it smooth. He knows he did it right by the way you go for a second sip without saying anything.
"I did good?" he quirks a brow.
"You did good," you nod.
"Good," he smiles, tapping the top of your chair, "'Cause Carl's putting it on the menu starting in November."
"How come?" you ask into your third sip, the steam billowing over your cheeks.
Steve lets his eyes flicker over your face slowly, offering a half shrug, "I told him to."
November brings the first pre-season snow, not that it mattered now that your favorite drink was a regular menu item now. Caramel and maple always in stock, espresso machine always on first thing in the morning.
You open twice a week now, seeing Steve more often than not. Dropping your key became less common now that he was normally at the door when you'd get there, ready to let you in.
"Another great day, right?" he'd tease.
Now that the holidays were in full swing the bookstore was busier than ever -- sales, bundles, events. You even started carrying children's coloring books and crayons in the kid's section; a whole set up just for kids to sit and color while their parent's browsed.
The stress was getting to you, constantly checking and rechecking the end of day sales versus last year, wanting to make sure everything was on a steady incline with a nice cushion for the next. It helped that the cafe seemed to be absolutely climbing in numbers since September. More and more people wanted to spend time over there, and the more time they spent the more time they looked at books or started reading. It wasn't shocking to see people checking out at the counter with a second coffee and a new book or two in hand.
You don't want it to be true, but you're sure the new barista had a play in what makes so many people stick around. You'd see the way Steve would flirt when he took orders, how he's listen to them intently, make every customer feel like they were the only person in the room.
At least that's how he'd make you feel when he caught your gaze from over the shelving, helping find books for new patrons from the college nearby. You both started to wave at each other at each passing glance, each look caught by surprise, each accidental yearning stare.
Mid-November greets you with a bitter chill, the very early morning doesn't even have the decency to greet with you the rising sun. It'll be atleast another half hour until then.
For the first time in a long time you don't drop the key, pushing into the store with ease. You waste no time turning the heat on, making sure the radiators bled a bit before hand. You rub your hands together while they settle in, putting your coat away in the cubby and switching out your shoes in the break room.
Opening on a Saturday morning isn't common for you, but it's the first event you've planned by yourself. A very simple read-along story telling with some kids from the neighborhood and their parents. You collected three solid winter time reads: The Mitten, The Snowy Day, and A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. A solid hour of reading while the parents could peruse, or sit and watch while their kids tuned into a book instead of cartoons on Nick Jr.
Once you've given yourself the onceover for the morning you feel more confident about the upcoming next few hours. Your knit tights fit snugly over your legs, a touch sheered out with the stretch over your thighs but the pleats in your plaid maroon skirt cover that just fine, hitting just above your knees -- still covered, still sensible. Still cute enough to snag a single dad if one were to show up.
Your feet stay tucked in a pair of worn in platform mary-janes stolen from your sister's New York City closet when you went to visit her over the summer. The chunky knit sweater over the whole ensemble completes you, a spitting image of a 'caught on the street' look you saw in a Seventeen magazine that you still get delivered to you despite being well past the age group.
You thrifted the sweater with Steve in mind, it looked like something he'd wear.
Anyway.
As you set up the 'reading rug' in the cafe area you hear the familar unlocking of the door. The sun finally starting to seep in in golden shards through the panes, leaving squares of light on the wood floors and carpets below.
"Hey Carl!" you call out, "I got everything up and running for you."
You hear the keys jingle but not his smoker's cough, not his heavy steps finding their way to the cafe area. Instead you look up to see Steve with his hands on his hips, watching you struggle to move the leather chintz to the back wall as your reading chair.
"Redecorating?" he asks, looking around the cafe. Under his shearling lined aviator jacket is an open hunter green flannel you wouldn't expect to see him in, his white t-shirt underneath hugs tights to his chest and stomach. You unfortunately noticed how great of a view that is for you.
"Um," you started, looking around the room and the dissaray you seem to have made without realizing, "Why are you here?"
"Same reason your here," he says, stepping forward to shoo you away from the chair, "I'm on the payroll."
"You don't work weekends," you say, crossing your arms over your chest while he lifts the chair over the rug with a soft grunt.
"I do today," he says with a slight strain, "Where do you want this?"
"Uh," you start, "Just right in the center against the wall so everyone can see me."
"Oh, so you're reading to the kids this morning?" he laughs to himself after putting the chair down. He wipes his hands off on each other, shrugging off the jacket and holding it in one arm, "Bitter Betty is gonna entertain the young minds of Main Street?"
"Bitter Betty, huh?" you challenge, following him into the back room, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what that's supposed to mean," he shakes his head.
"I am very sweet," you tell him, a serious edge to your voice, "There are so many customer reviews saying how sweet I am."
"Sure," he nods, putting his coat away in his cubby, "I bet there are; since y'know, you're selling them something."
"I'm not just nice when I'm selling something," you say softly, arms coming protectively across your chest. A frustration bubbles in your chest while you look at him, following him back out into the cafe so you can keep getting the place ready before the families start to show up, "You think you know everything."
"I don't," he shakes his head, smiling while he checks over the machines and gets the first pot of coffee started.
"Yeah, you do. You walked in here two months ago and swear you know everything," you huff, getting the cafe back to a place of organized coziness.
"Okay," he chuckles, "Whatever you say, boss."
"You're infuriating," you mumble under your breath.
"Got that caramel latte coming right up for you, by the way," he says warmly.
Your head turns to see him watching you, he smiles, "Maybe you're a little nicer after you've had a coffee."
You smile back, unable to stop it this time.
"So that's a yes, right?" he cocks his head, fingers drumming on the counter while he watches you. That Harringtom charm pumping out at full speed.
"Y-yeah," you nod, "Whatever. You gonna go chop down a tree, Harrington? What's with the flannel?"
He looks down at his shirt and then back up at you with a soft shake of his head, "I better hurry up and get that started for you."
The kids look up at you with starry eyes, their parents smiling along with their coffees, lattes, espressos, and pastries. The Mitten was a hit and The Snowy Day is so far showing up to be a great follow up.
You take your time to really point out the pictures and adding on to the story since all three of them are pretty short. However, you're finding that kids between two and five are pretty easy to entertain if you do enough counting and make enough sound effects. Maybe you should've been a kindergarten teacher -- or maybe not. Maybe you should just keep doing book events.
You're halfway through when you show the illustrations to the group again, listening to them ooh and ahh at all the snow.
"Did um -- Miss -- did you know -- it snowed? It snowed at my house," one of the older kids announces, arm straight up in the air.
"It snowed last week, Michael, that's right," his mom pipes up, "Daddy had to shovel outside."
"Has everyone else seen snow? Raise your hand if you've seen this much snow!" you announce in your perfect parentese, watching while the older kids and parents raise their hands. The two year olds don't really get it so they just sit there and laugh.
You look up at all the hands, an enthusiastic 'Wow!' coming out of your mouth -- but you barely hear it. Behind the hands are a set of warm amber eyes looking at you from the coffee bar, soft and gentle. Enthralled even. You swallow and lick your lips quickly before smiling, catching his smile back as you look back at the book to start again.
After each couple of pages you catch each other, the pink on his cheeks rising when he looks away -- pretending to be occupied with something else. Cleaning, organizing, resetting the espresso machine. He can tell you're flustered by the way you clear your throat whenever you start to read again.
After The Snowy Day you take a ten minute break so that the parents can take their kids to the bathroom or re-up their beverages. The tip jar is full to bursting because nobody knows how to make a single mom feel like Steve Harrington does; and husbands will pay anything to get him to leave their wives alone.
You reset your chair, making sure the books you're reading are on display for purchasing on the shelving close by in your Winter Children's Bundle for a discounted price. As the ten minutes closes up you feel a soft tap on your shoulder.
"Here," you turn around to Steve with a green mug in his hands, "It's just regular coffee this time, but -- figured you could use it."
You take it body first, reaching around for the handle only to feel his fingers brush against yours at the hand of. The soft touch isn't electric like it is in the books, it's like that but better. Warm like an oven, the gooey parts of you rising in a slow bake when you see him look down and turn away -- running that same hand through his hair on his way back to the counter.
"Thanks," you say over the chatter of parents and kids coming back to sit.
"Can I have something ready for you for your break?" he asks back.
"Surprise me," you shrug, sitting back on your chintz chair and taking the final book onto your lap. The kids cheer when they see Snoopy on the cover, a well loved favorite cartoon to finish off their morning. With the crack of the spine you can already smell the sales coming once this little event is over.
You work through your break, ringing up and helping customer after customer on easily one of the busiest Saturday's you've seen in a while. It normally doesn't get busy like this at least for another couple of weeks.
The stress of working through lunch barely matters though because your event was a bigger success than you could've hoped for -- logging in the notes for Rochelle that you should probably start doing this throughout the season just for good measure.
It's starting to get dark by the time your shift ends and the store closes -- early on Saturdays at a tight 4 PM. You let your sales girl go a little early, wanting to take the time to close up the store properly since you were the one who made it such a mess this morning. As you start to put the chairs back that had been moved from the cafe to the children's section you hear him, fingers tapping on the counter.
"You didn't come by for your break," he says, "And I put a lot of effort into that drink."
"Sorry, we can't all be flirting through our shifts like you can, Harrington," you snark with a grin, flipping the last chair over onto it's accompanied table.
"You don't have to clean up the coffee part of the store," he says, coming around with another mug in hand, "That's my job, y'know."
"I know," you say, "But I kind of fucked it up this morning so -- just doing my part."
"Well, here," he says, mug outstretched in his large hand, gold ring gleaming back at you, "For doing your part, I guess."
"You guess, huh?" you laugh lazily, taking it -- he places his fingers in a way that you have no choice but to touch them. You wonder if he did it on purpose, "What do you call this one?"
"'Surprise me'," he replies in a mocking drawl, flipping the rag over his shoulder again and leaning against the counter's edge. The first sip is unfortunately one of the most even temperatured hot drinks you've put past your lips.
"You're good at this," you blurt out, almost offended.
"Well don't look so upset about it."
"I am upset about it," you nod back over the lip of the mug, taking another sip. Mocha -- something. It's like hot chocolate and espresso but better, still caramel, still cinnamon, like a hug from your past but caffienated like your present.
"Consider me surprised," you nod, licking your lips again, "It's good -- it's um -- yeah. It's really good."
"Thanks," he smirks, "A few of the mom's thought so, too."
You let out a sigh through your teeth, rolling your eyes. He expected that, taking a step forward when your gaze comes back to center. You can smell the left over wraiths of his cologne and Old Spice deodorant, count the moles on his neck adorned with his hidden gold chain, see the hair on his forearms from his rolled up sleeves.
"You know something," he says quietly, "If I didn't know any better -- I'd think you like me."
"Like you?" you balk, eyes widening, "You wish."
He clicks his tongue when you get so defensive because it just proves him right. He crosses his arms with another step forward, head cocking to the side slightly while he sizes you up. Why did his creator need to make his forearms so beefy? So perfectly sculpted that you can't look at them without losing your train of thought? Stupid.
"I don't think I have to wish, honey," he says softly, Doc Martins creaking on the wooden floors, "I think...uh, I think I must allow you to tell me how ardently you admire and like me."
Your mouth falls open, staring at him with eyes as glassy at the kids who watched you read this morning.
"You -- no -- you read it?"
"Maybe," he says, another step forward, his arms bumping against your chest.
"Maybe?" you ask back, brow quirking.
"Yeah, maybe I did," he runs a hand through his hair, falling back away from his face to show off his sturdy brow bone, watching you with admiration down the slope of his nose.
He reaches down and takes the mug out of your hand with smooth finesse, arm long enough to reach back and place it on the counter behind him. When he leans back in place he's closer than before, toe to toe, nearly nose to nose.
"Maybe I bought it the day you told me about it," he shrugs, "Maybe I thought it was pretty close to something I had goin' on with a girl I know."
"A girl you know?" you challenge. You know exactly who he means, but it might be fun to hear him say it.
"Yeah, sometimes I only see her like, an hour a day. But sometimes I get to watch her read on her break, sometimes I get to close with her on Saturdays," he explains warmly, the timbre of his voice deep against the crackling of the fire in the back corner of the cafe.
"This is the only Saturday you've closed with me," you counter, head tilting up slightly, close enough that the tip of your nose brushes his.
"Who said I was talking about you, honey?" he murmurs back, mischief in his eyes that are half hidden by his eyelids. You feel a puff of his breath over your top lip, still minty fresh like he just brushed his teeth.
"We both know you're talking about me," you smirk, self satisfied while his gaze flickers to your lips and back to your eyes. He steps at an angle, making you step back so you're against the pick up counter.
"So sure of yourself," he he scoffs quietly, leaning over you and getting into your space. Each hand coming to the side of you to lean on the granite, caging you in, "I like that in a pretty girl."
"Most do," you shrug matter of factly.
"Yeah," he nods, "Think that's what I like about you."
"Maybe that's what I like about you, too," you nearly whisper out.
"Maybe?" he asks, lower lip ghosting over yours.
"Mayb--"
The hand he uses to run through his hair finds itself flat over the back of yours, sliding down to over your cheek and jaw where he keeps you angled just right. He closes the millimeters between you, warm lips catching yours in a kiss that feels like passion but a power play you want to match.
Your hands find their way to his shoulders, heads moving in soft tilts when you change angles. When you find yourself sat on the edge of the counter he uses the leverage to pull you close to him, hips between the fullness of your thighs.
His tongue skates over yours when it slides into your mouth, free hand ridding up the soft material of your tights, tips of his fingers inching under the hem of your skirt in an innocent tease.
Even the way he breathes through it is sexy, leaving you with a lingering guess of what he can do when he presses his lips against your neck. Tongue flitting and striping while he nearly nips a bruise onto your skin.
You let out a gentle gasp, enough to admit defeat to him -- much to your chagrin. Steve comes back up to your lips to meet you with a few final deep kisses before you break apart.
He steps back once, the deep golden light of the sun setting cracks through the panes of the back window in the cafe, adoring him in a glow that shines of his hair and eyes. The kind of glow they write about, the kind of glow you read about.
You both take deep breaths, eyes hungry for each other -- unsure if you should go for more. He lingers, coming forward again to rest his hands on your thighs.
"I didn't read it," he confesses.
"Pfffft. Why am I not surprised?" you huff, exasperated.
"But! But, but, but," he argues back, pecking you feverishly, "I had to go to like, five different places to find the movie from 1980 so -- I did actually put some effort into it."
"I love that one," you say back.
"I get points for that, right?" he asks expectantly.
"Yeah, fine. You're luck you're cute," you explain, "But you do definitely have to read it, at some point. If you wanna keep making out with me in the cafe after closing."
"Oh, absolutely," he grins, hand reaching to pull you in by the back of the neck for a final searing kiss, "You'll have to teach me, remember?"
You of course start closing together every single Saturday.
I'd run the risk of losing breath on empty pages,
losing breath on no exchanges,
losing breath on no one waiting
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Summary: Working at an overnight camp--the same camp you’ve been going to since you could walk--should be fun. But it isn’t. Not when all you can see is the boy you used to love, the boy who used to love you, running around, having the time of his life with his new girlfriend.
Everyone loves him. Everyone seems to want him. And you’re forced to watch it, knowing what he did to you, knowing how you feel for him.
Perhaps an old friend could help.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, enemies to loversish?, derogatory language, heavy ex yearning, plot heavy smut, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, ruined orgasm, oral (f-receiving), praise, light anal play (whoops), squirting, fingering, creampie, choking, dom!steve, jealousy, horsecock steve harrington ofc, a sickenening amount of petnames, probably more tbh...
W.C: 13.8k
a/n: this is by far my LONGEST oneshot and the nastiest smut I have ever written to date. I'm both parts happy and shocked with myself. hope you enjoy <3.
୨♡୧
The sun beats down on your back, heating your skin down to the bone. A lingering headache sneaks up your temples, settling deep within your skull. Your black tank–which you’re now regretting immensely–sticks to your skin, sweat sliding down each notch of your spine.
Other counselors chat and laugh around you, oblivious to the storm swirling deep within your stomach. An all-consuming ache that even with months of distance has refused to go away.
How can anyone blame you, though? Although some people might claim you and Richie Blake were nothing more than a summer fling, a brief blink in time, you know you were more than that. You wish, you hope, Richie knows that too.
Your love burned bright and fast, and no matter how long you fought to keep the wick standing, the wax melted too quickly, searing nothing but the memory of him into your skin. Burning all your faults into the creases of your charred palms, all the harsh words he threw at you settling deep within your bones.
Flashes of last summer flood back into your head as they always do, ever-present, never-ending. The ghost of his hands on your waist, the taste of his tongue on your lips. The constant “I love yous” and “I miss yous” even though he was only a few cabins down.
And then, there he is.
Richie shuffles over to a group of his friends, just a few feet away from you. A large, dimpled smile lights up his face, dirty blonde hair swooping high above the arch of his brows. Over all the chatter of other counselors around you, you can still hear that deep, baritone voice. Smooth as honey.
As if the world stops spinning on its axis, time slows down as his eyes slide to yours, through the crowd of people. A part of you hopes for a twitch of his brow, for his entire face to light up like it used to. Except… there's nothing. Then, like it never happened, he turns back to his friends and continues whatever story he’s telling them.
“Stalking him again?” A raspy voice behind you.
You spin around, eyes wide, your heart pounding against your ribs. “Jesus Christ, Robin!”
“Sorry, sorry!” She laughs, the sound escalating when you stick out your tongue at her.
“Seriously though, you have to let him go.” It’s true, of course. Doesn’t mean that the thought of it doesn’t make your heart hurt.
“I mean- come on, Rob? Who does that? Seriously?”
“I know-”
“He told me he loves me! How can you love someone one day, and claim ‘you’re not mentally ready for a relationship?’ Like, hello?!”
Robin cringes, watching you wave your hands around erratically, your face getting redder and redder. She gets it; she really does. But it’s been an entire year since last summer. Robin of all people knows how draining it is to dwell on the same person for so long. After all, her Tammy Thompson is your Richie Blake.
“Hey- maybe we should take a breath?”
Just as you're winding up to argue with her, you look over your shoulder, just wanting one more glance at his beautiful face—when she walks up.
Hollie Carter.
Long, shiny auburn hair falls down her back in soft waves, the sun shining off the loose curls. Tight black shorts vacuum seal themselves to the curve of her ass, her tits popping out of her red bikini top. The plump curve of her lip is smeared in shimmering gloss, her teeth shining white as a smile spreads across her face.
She walks right up to Richie, placing her manicured hand on his bicep. And the look on his face fucking breaks you. His eyes are shining, the dimple on his right cheek appearing almost immediately. You remember the times you pressed your lips against it; you remember the times his eyes used to shine that way when he looked at you.
But they’re focused on her.
And god, she’s fucking beautiful. Everything you’re not. Athletic, funny, put together. Sexy. Everything you were insecure about in his arms.
There were rumors they were talking. You knew they must’ve been true. Hell, even when he was yours, she was all over him. But, fuck, seeing them interact like that? Right in front of you? It hurts. It’s worse than hurt, even. It’s that type of burning ache that tears through your veins, splits your heart open till you’re bleeding into your lungs, choking on every “what if.”
What if you were prettier? What if you were funnier? Smarter?
And yeah, you can’t blame him for moving on. You don’t own him. At this point, it feels like you never had him in the first place. Sometimes you wonder if you were ever even friends?
Robin knocks you out of your spiraling thoughts rather abruptly, sliding in front of you, blocking the sickeningly good-looking couple from your view.
“Okay. Enough of this, I'm serious. You need a Richie detox,” Robin says, stepping to the side when you try to look past her shoulder once you see Hollie getting on her tiptoes to whisper something in his ear. “I’m serious! You should move to be a counselor for the older kids so you don’t have to see him as much!”
In response, you shake your head. You wish it were that easy. “Rob, we’re four weeks into the summer! I can’t just switch bunks.”
“So you’re just going to torture yourself for another five weeks?”
“No- I’ll- I’ll deal with it, okay?! It’s like- it’s not even that big of a deal. I’m over him,” you huff, sounding like you wouldn’t even be able to convince the most gullible person on the face of this planet.
“I’ll talk to our boss, how about that? See what she can do-“
Your conversation is once again interrupted by a chorus of greetings from over Robin's shoulder, and another face you’d really rather not be seeing right now.
Steve Harrington, Richie’s best friend. His right-hand man, if you will. Both you and Robin watch as Steve saunters up to the growing group of counselors and claps Richie on the back. Some kind of energy in the group shifts, like they’re absolutely enthralled by the man.
It does nothing more than fuel your growing anger. Your despair. To you, Steve Harrington is nothing more than a man-child with too much hair. To you, he’s nothing to blink an eye at, nothing to swoon over like every fucking person on this planet does.
Maybe, to other people, you have absolutely no reason to hate him. Just because he’s friends with Richie doesn’t make him an asshole. But you know better. You have a way of reading people, seeing things others can’t. You’re not falling for his spell.
A little tidbit that you know for a fact that Steve would never tell anyone—to him, he’s too cool for the likes of you—is that you used to be friends. Best friends, even. Back in high school. Then he became the king. Really, he just became a fucking asshole. Nothing less, nothing more. He started pushing you away, calling you less, laughing at you when he was with his new shiny friends.
To top it all off, Steve only became close friends with Richie AFTER he broke your heart. They merely rotated in the same circle beforehand! It’s like he did it to spite you. To show that you’ll never be anything more than that weird girl King Steve wouldn’t even spare a passing glance at.
Fucking dick.
Robin, seemingly noticing the steam billowing out of your ears, grabs your forearm and starts to drag you away. “Okay, we’re done here. Back to our cabin!”
“Wait- Robin! I still need to get snacks for my kids!” You say, stumbling into step with her.
As you’re pulled away from the crowd, you don’t notice the honey-thick eyes burning into the back of your head.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
Cold lake-water laps against your ankles, goosebumps littering your skin with each gentle roll of the water. The light from the moon shines on the ripples of the inky black water, cicadas singing somewhere deep within the trees that surround you.
After an entire day of stewing in anger, the sadness came crashing in, like it always seems to do. That crushing, devastating pain sat heavy on your chest, making it almost impossible for you to even think without sobbing. Robin tried to help, forced you to watch all your favorite comedies, scooped you a huge bowl of ice cream, and let you cry on her shoulder. Although it helped for a little, it just wasn’t enough.
So, once she fell asleep on your shoulder halfway through a movie you don’t even remember the name of, you slowly set her head down on a pillow and snuck out to the camp lake. Your happy place, the one place where you feel like you can breathe.
Still, tears silently roll down your cheeks, mixing into the inky water below.
At this point, you begin to think it’ll never get better. This empty hole in your heart just won’t heal; it never will. And what makes it all so awful? Richie doesn’t even care. You know he doesn’t think of you. He doesn’t even spare you a passing glance; how foolish do you have to be to think one day he might miss you?-
Suddenly, footsteps sound on the wood dock behind you, heavy yet unrushed. You quickly wipe your tears on the sleeve of your sweatshirt, sniffling quickly.
“Robin- just go, please,” you whisper, hiding your face to the side, hoping she can’t see the mess of mascara you know is smeared across your cheeks.
“Hollie’s a bitch, you know,” she says.
Except, the voice is not Robin’s at all.
You startle, your neck almost breaking from how quickly you whip your head to the side. “What the fuck?!” You rush out, holding your chest where your heart feels like it’s going to burst out of your ribs from the shock.
You’re face to face with Steve, his face illuminated by only the moon, his hair a messy swoop of chestnut waves. “You shouldn’t let her bother you,” he says casually, his gaze settling on the far side of the lake. A cigarette hangs from his lips, glowing dimly, smoke curling in the air.
Looking at him, bewildered, you open and shut your mouth. “What the fuck do you want?”
Then, he glances back over at you, tilting his head to the side. He pulls the cig from his lips, blowing the smoke in your face. “That’s why you’re crying, right? Hollie and Richie? Or just Richie?”
Scoffing, you scoot away from him, shaking your head. “Steve, seriously, fuck off,” you grunt, waving the pungent smell away from your face.
He’s silent for a moment before you hear shuffling. His feet slide into the water next to yours as he leans back on his hands, relaxing like this is a normal conversation he’s having with one of his closest friends.
“What he did… Was really fucked up. I should’ve said something sooner.”
Slowly, you turn your head to look at him, your lips parting. That’s new.
But also rich coming from him of all people.
“If you really thought that, you wouldn’t have become all buddy-buddy with him a week after it happened. You’re worse than him for that.” Maybe that last part isn’t… completely true. But it feels that way. You haven’t been friends for a long, long time. Yet it feels like a betrayal. That kind of quiet betrayal that sneaks up on you when you least expect it, that keeps you up for weeks wondering why.
He blows out a breath, shaking his head. A few strands of hair fall over his brow, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he debates his next words. “He lied to me about it,” he whispers, taking another drag.
Immediately, you shake your head. “Sure he did. Everyone knew about it last year; he was bragging to his whole fucking friend group. Said he led me on for fun, called me an ugly bitch.”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve exasperates, smoke blowing from his lips when he speaks, his eyebrows twitching. “He said that?”
Just as you're about to fire back at him, you turn to look into his eyes. All you see is genuine shock. And anger. “He didn’t tell you that?”
“I heard rumors from our other friends. I thought it was just bullshit. He seemed so… stand-up,” Steve says, having trouble even getting the words out after what you just said.
In response, you blow out a laugh. “They always do.”
Silence follows, only the sounds of the trees rustling in the wind, the sharp coos of owls just a whisper in the night. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and his cologne, the scent weirdly comforting. From the corner of your eye, you can see him flick the dying butt into the lake beneath his feet, making your eye twitch. But you don’t say anything, snapping your teeth together.
You think back to what Steve said just a few moments ago, about how Richie lied to him. The question sits on your tongue, begging to be let out. But a part of you doesn’t even want to know. For all you know, he could’ve told people that you’re a crazed stalker that casted a spell on him so he’d fall in love.
But curiosity seeps in deep, grabbing a hold of you in its sharp claws. “What did he tell you?”
The man next to you is silent for a moment, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his head. Even in the moonlight you can see a soft dusting of pink creeping up the tips of his ears. “It’s just gonna piss you off…”
“Harrington, I’m already pissed off. Just fucking tell me.”
With a soft sigh, he shakes his head. “He, uh. Told me you slept with his friends when you guys were dating.”
You almost breathe a sigh of relief. It could be worse. It’s not great, but it could be worse. “That’s it? He just wants people thinking I’m a slut?”
“At the same time.”
“Oh.” You’re silent for a moment, your body bracing itself for your next question. “How many did he say?”
Silence rolls back in, Steve’s face almost glowing in the night. It’s certainly a weird sight to see the king so unbelievably uncomfortable. “Five.”
You sputter, choking on your spit. “Five?! Five??! Are you fucking serious?”
“Dead,” he looks over at you, a sheepish look on his face.
“And you believed him? Like, you legitimately believed I had a fivesome. Me? Of all people?”
“I mean- I think that would be considered a sixsome?”
“Steve!” You shove his shoulder hard, almost causing him to tumble into the water.
“I’m sorry! He’s very convincing!” Steve says with a rich laugh, running a hand through his hair.
“Jesus Christ!” You laugh in disbelief, the tears long gone. “You know, he’s the fucking weirdo here. You know what he wanted me to do?”
He cringes, his eyes widening. “Oh god, can I say no?”
Promptly ignoring him, you continue. “He wanted me to watch him fuck my sister. My sister, Steve!”
He immediately turns his body toward you, eyes as wide as saucers. “You’re joking. Holy shit- You’re joking,” he sputters in disbelief.
“I wish I was!” You laugh, almost mad at yourself for putting up with all this bullshit he put you through.
“And you’re still hung up on this asshole?” He says, not in that teasing way that’s crafted to make you feel bad, but in genuine, utter disbelief.
“Fucked up, right?” You shake your head.
Steve’s silent for another moment, a soft laugh filling the empty air. “You need to get under someone else, Cookie. Get that asshole out of your head.”
Both his words and his use of your old nickname make you startle. “First of all, don’t call me that. Second of all, fuck you. I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Whoa! Jesus, not me!” He throws his hands up in front of him, as if you’re about to hit him. “I can hook you up with someone. I know half the guys here.”
Embarrassment simmers low within your stomach at your assumption. “Oh…Right. Still, I don’t want you to be my.. Dick Wingman.”
“Your- Dick Wingman?” Chest rumbling with a laugh, an eyebrow quirks up.
“You know what I mean. I’m perfectly fine without sex.” And it’s true. Mostly. Sure, you’ve been getting slightly frustrated recently. But you’ve just been attributing it to the Richie-shaped-hole left in your heart. You just simply miss his touch, his taste, his warmth. That’s why. Not because you need to get pulverized into a mattress. God, no.
“Come on. Just- What’s your type? I can help you find someone. Call me your matchmaker.”
“No thanks,” you huff, not convinced.
“Look, you don’t have to sleep with anyone. Just tell me your type, and I’ll set you up with someone. You don’t like him, I’ll leave you alone. Won’t ever bring it up again.” Once he notices the unconvinced look on your face, he holds up three fingers. “Scout's honor?”
“You’re not a Boy Scout, Steve,” you mutter, crossing your arms across your chest.
Still, you consider it. What’s the worst that can happen? Like he said, it’s not like you have to sleep with whoever he finds for you. Even still, he could find you someone that you genuinely find attractive! Then maybe, finally, you could begin to get over Richie.
“Fine,” you sigh, taking a moment to consider. “I guess I like funny guys. The kind that can always make you laugh, even if they’re saying something stupid. Someone-“
Steve interrupts you quickly with a shake of his head. “No- I mean physical. Like, blonde, blue-eyed.”
Your eye twitches when you look back over at him. “I’m not that shallow.”
Fearing that he’s lost you again, Steve overexaggerates a pout, his eyes somehow glowing under the light of the moon. “Humor me. Please?”
“Ew, don’t do that,” you laugh, looking away from him. When you look back, he’s still pouting, looking like a kicked puppy. “Okay, okay, fine, stop,” you push his face away, earning a chuckle from his lips.
You take a moment to think. When you really consider it, Richie isn’t much of your type at all. Of course, you find him attractive. You’d be blind not to, really. But you’ve never really had a thing for blondes. That’s a starting point, you suppose.
“I mean, I guess I’ve always had a thing for brunettes,” you say slowly.
“Gotta give me more than that, Cookie,” he winks at you when you throw him a nasty look.
As you think about it, the words begin to tumble out of your mouth in a long, seemingly never-ending stream. “I like brown eyes too. Not exactly brown, actually. I like when guys are pretty, you know? When the sun hits them, and their eyes turn almost golden. When if you look close enough you can see flicks of green in them.”
Steve’s silent for a beat, and you chalk it up to him simply processing your words and waiting for you to continue.
“I like full lips, too. Not when they’re chapped. I don’t know why guys refuse to wear chapstick; I hate kissing someone with dry lips,” you shudder at the thought and continue. “I also think I have a weird thing with noses? I like when guys have big ones. Everyone says it’s ugly, but I think it’s cute.”
“Mhm,” Steve murmurs, but it sounds slightly strained. Still, you continue.
“Oh, and, jumping around here, but I like when guys have nice hair. Last year Richie showed me a picture of him in a buzzcut, and it was… Really, really bad. I just think guys look so much better with lots of hair. I mean, not long hair like Jonathan’s friend. But you know what I mean,” you rush out, letting the words tumble out without even thinking.
To your surprise, Steve is still silent. Quickly, you assume it’s because he expects you to continue. Sure, slight miscalculation on your part, but you keep talking. “I don’t need a guy that’s ripped or anything. I like when guys are a little soft, or lean. Biceps are a must, though. And he doesn’t really have to be that tall—just taller than me.”
Finally, you look over at him, not really sure what else to say. He’s staring at you wide-eyed, his lips parted and a look of absolute bewilderment written all over his face. He stutters a few times, completely unable to even get a single sentence out.
“Wha- What did I say? You told me I can be shallow!”
“No- I- Think about everything you just said,” he finally gets out.
For a moment, you press your lips together, trying to comprehend what you could’ve possibly said wrong. “What? The height thing? I don’t think it’s bad to want someone taller than you.”
He looks at you like you just ran over a puppy, his eyebrows furrowed so tightly you’re worried he might give himself a migraine. Steve says your name slowly, then he gestures to himself.
It takes you a moment to understand what he means, but as soon as you realize, you laugh loudly and roll your eyes. “Steve, not every girl is attracted to you. Sorry to be the one to break it to you.”
“Okay- hold on. Usually, I’d agree with you. But after all that shit you just said? According to you, I’m exactly your type!”
“Oh, Steve, come on!” You scoff.
“Brunette?”
“There’s plenty of brunettes at this camp!”
“Great hair? Tall? Hazel eyes? Big nose? Lean? Cookie, please tell me you’re not that dense,” he says, voice almost begging.
You’re about to argue with him, you’re about to deny, deny, deny. Because, seriously? You? Being attracted to Steve Harrington? You’ve always had an immense amount of pride for not being like all the other girls who fawn and drool over him. But slowly, so slowly, something deep twists within your chest. Realization comes slowly rolling in like waves crashing on the shoreline, the undertow dragging you under with it.
Under the moonlight, you look at him. You really look at him.
And fuck, he’s gorgeous. The moon casts shadows across his face, deepening each curve, his long eyelashes casting a shadow over his face. Freckles are splattered across his tanned skin like constellations, spreading all the way down and hiding beneath his tank top. His hair falls in soft, chestnut waves over the arch of his brow, urging you to run your fingers through them.
And his lips. Oh, fuck, his lips. They’re curved into a teasing smirk, making you wish you could wipe it right off. They’re dusted a baby pink color, plush and full. They look soft, so, so soft.
Okay. You’re fucked. You’re so fucked.
Knocking you out of your trance, you feel fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze to line up with his. “You’re attracted to me, Cookie. Admit it.”
Humiliatingly, you can feel your face glow red, the tips of your ears burning. “I’m- No- God, Harrington, you’re so full of yourself! And- you know what? Your eyes aren’t even hazel, asshole!”
He gives you a deadpan look, his hand dropping from your chin. “Really? That’s the defense you’re going with?”
When you refuse to say anything more, he rolls his eyes. He fishes in the pocket of his shorts, pulling out a small flashlight. Then, he shines it right in his eyes, making him flinch back just slightly.
You see the deep, rich color, specks of gold and deep greens swirling in the thick pool of honey. They almost glow in the artificial light, a siren call that urges you to get lost in them. As soon as the light comes, it ceases when he flicks the flashlight off and shoves it back in his pocket. “Are you done?”
You look down at your lap, hanging your head in shame. You’ve run out of words to defend yourself with, embarrassment sinking deep in your soul. You should’ve just kept your big fucking mouth shut. “Can we just… pretend like this didn’t happen?”
Steve shakes his head sharply, not letting you get away with this so easily. “Nah-ah. I’m still your matchmaker, remember? And we just found the perfect candidate to make you forget all about Richie,” he says, his voice lowering on the last part, the deep baritone going straight into your stomach.
“I’m not letting you stick your dick in me, asshole. Stop trying to pimp yourself out to me,” you say, forcing your eye to twitch despite how those first words make you feel between your legs.
“I never said anything about me fucking you. I don’t even have to take my pants off, you know. I can... make you feel good. Just for a night. Show you that Richie’s not the only guy that knows what he’s doing,” Steve murmurs, walking his fingers up your thigh, his touch gentle, light. Just in case you push it away.
But you don’t. You can’t. Not when waves of molten travel right to your core at the mere thought, at the barely there touch of his fingers. “So- W-what? You’re just going to rub my thigh until I have to fake an orgasm?”
At that, Steve lets out a deep chuckle. “You know I’m better than that,” he says simply, not offering more.
After a deep breath, you shake your head. This whole thing is stupid. Having mediocre not-sex (with Steve Harrington of all people) isn’t going to help you get over the man you love. But a small, tiny fraction of your body aches for touch. Not… specifically Steve’s, right? Just someone’s hands all over your body, the warmth of their lips against yours, their taste on your tongue.
“Okay,” Steve says with a shrug, like it doesn’t bother him. To your surprise, he pulls his hand away and sets it in his lap.
As soon as his warmth leaves you, a chill spills down each notch of your spine, a deep lingering want left behind in its wake. Something akin to a searing desperation, the likes of which you haven’t felt in a long, long time. Not since Richie.
With a shuddering breath in, you give in. You can’t imagine leaving this dock, going back to your cabin and tucking yourself to sleep without at least giving it a try. “Steve?” You whisper, so quietly you’re worried he won’t hear.
Slowly, he turns his head, an eyebrow quirked. “Hm?”
Without so much as another thought, you push his head toward you and surge toward him, your lips pressing against his.
Somewhere in the back of his throat sounds a strangled groan, his entire body freezing. You move your lips against his, almost letting out a moan of your own at how soft they feel against yours. When you pull back, he’s staring wide-eyed at you, blinking at you with nothing but confusion on his face.
“You gonna help me tonight or what?”
His pupils blow, a smirk growing on his face, his eyebrows furrowing in challenge. “You sure?”
“Shut up, Harrington.”
Just as you see the ‘make me’ forming on his lips, you twist your fingers into his shirt, yanking him forward. This time, Steve comes to his senses quite quickly.
His hand slides up your neck into your hair, his nails scraping your scalp as he grabs a fistful. His mouth is persistent and warm, feeling like it’s made to be against yours. “You better be good,” you murmur into his mouth.
Feeling his smirk makes your cunt flutter around nothing, the feeling making you shudder. “Oh, I am, honey,” he says right back.
He slips his tongue out of his mouth, coaxing your lips apart. You allow him to tilt your head to the other side, his tongue slipping into the wet heat of your mouth. A soft whimper leaves your throat at the feeling of his tongue sliding against yours, his taste absolutely intoxicating. Somewhere beneath the lingering smoke on his tongue, you can taste the sharp mint of gum, and a taste so uniquely Steve you can’t help but whine. Fuck, it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
You can feel him smiling against you at your little whimpers, his teeth hitting yours when you press yourself closer to him. The kiss borders on senseless, pure desperation. He licks into your mouth with fervor, your lips glistening in spit, both yours and his.
Once you feel his hand traveling up your shirt, cold fingertips brushing your burning skin, you place your palm on his chest, pushing him back. “We- We should go to a cabin.”
Steve blinks at you, his eyes completely dazed. When his brain is able to catch up with him, he clears his throat and nods. “Eddie’s at Chrissy’s tonight. Mine is empty.”
“Right. Yeah,” you breathe out. The gravity of what you’re about to do starts to weigh on you when Steve stands up and offers his hand, pulling you down the dock.
Hopefully he’s not all talk.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
The walk back to the cabin is silent, your heart matching each heavy footstep you both take. As you get closer and closer, your stomach begins to twist, warmth pulsing between your thighs. The smell of damp grass wafts through the air, the mud beneath your shoes getting softer with each march forward.
When you see Steve’s cabin come into view, dread begins to pulse through your body. What if you can’t get Richie out of your head, and you moan his name instead? And again, what if Steve thinks he’s really that good, when in reality, he’s not? You’ve had a good amount of sexual partners. None of them were really that… mind-blowing. Some of them were downright awful. You shudder thinking about all the times guys have jackhammered their fingers in you, telling you to cum when you weren’t even close.
And Richie? You don’t even remember. That’s how much you loved him. He could’ve been absolutely awful, and you'd have no clue. All you could think about when he was with you, when he was in you, was just that: how your heart is fully his, no one else’s.
Without you even realizing, you end up at Steve’s front door. He takes a moment to fish his keys out of his pocket. You can’t help but notice the way his biceps flex when he twists the key in the knob. At least he’s hot.
Steve cracks the door open, motioning for you to step in. Shuffling to the middle of the room, you take a look around. It’s more or less the same as yours, if not a little messier on one side. With a quick look around, you realize it’s Eddie’s side that’s mostly untidy. Band posters and clutter line the walls and shelves, sheets dark as night. His desk is covered in papers and pens, coffee rings scattered all over it. It’s not disgusting, per se. Just so Eddie that it makes you smile.
Steve’s side of the cabin is… surprising. It’s neat, almost empty. His sheets are navy blue, pillows silk white. His desk has a small pile of papers on it, a line of pens on top. The only light in the room is the little lamp on his desk that he must’ve left on before going to the docks. It smells strongly of citrus soap and Steve’s cologne when you walk over to his desk, the scent infecting your lungs with each inhale. You smile when your fingers brush against a small succulent, googly eyes on the pot.
“Who’s this?” You chuckle.
Quiet as a mouse, Steve comes up behind you, his chin leaning over your shoulder. The sudden barely-there contact makes you shiver. “Jonathan gave it to me. Don’t know how I’ve kept him alive so long.”
“It’s a succulent, Harrington. You have to water them like… four times a year.”
His breath is hot on the shell of your ear when he chuckles, eyelashes brushing your temple. “I don’t think you came here to talk gardening with me, Cookie.”
You can feel your face light on fire, the AC doing nothing to calm the heat of your body. It intensifies when his fingers rest on your hips and turn you around, your faces just barely apart.
The look on his face is earnest when he speaks next, “We don’t have to do this, honey. You can walk out right now. Or just chill here for a little. Up to you.”
Considering it for a moment, you gently shake your head. You’re determined. “No- I want this,” you whisper, voice firm. Final.
With a twitch of the corner of his lips, Steve leans in, pressing his lips to yours once again. Immediately, you can’t help but melt into him, pressing your chest against his, fingers tangling in the soft tendrils of his hair.
Steve deepens the kiss with a sweep of his tongue against the roof of your mouth, a needy whine from your throat following it. He walks you backwards blindly, pinning you to the wall with his body.
The kiss becomes sloppy, his hands traveling across the planes of your body, tracing each dip and curve with warm, eager palms. You gasp into his mouth when his hands travel downward, fingers digging into the plush skin of your ass. With a press of his palms against your ass, he drags your crotch against his.
As soon as the seam of your shorts comes into contact with the firmness of the bulge in his, you let out a frankly embarrassing noise.
“Feel that?” He grunts against your mouth, rolling your hips against his, making sure you feel him kick up against you. “See what you do to me, pretty girl?”
The pet name sends a spark through your body, your legs spreading when Steve kicks them apart just slightly. Then, he presses the corded muscles of his bare thigh against your aching heat, grinding you down onto it. “Steve-“ You whine, eyebrows furrowing as he nips at your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth.
“What do you need? Tell me, honey,” he murmurs against your jaw, his nose nudging your head to the side.
Before you even have the chance to answer him, his teeth sink into the skin of your neck, the sharp pain stinging so good. You let out breathy whimpers as his lips press against the spot, tongue swiping out to soothe the blooming purple. “Fuck- Steve! You’re gonna- ah- leave a mark,” you whine, fingers cording through his hair, holding him against you despite your words.
“Good. Gotta show Richie that you’re bein’ taken care of, yeah?” He murmurs, nipping at your fluttering pulse, the skin jumping as your blood pumps through your body harder, flooding your ears until all you can hear is that thick, syrupy voice. “Show him that you don’t need his pathetic ass anymore.”
The words should hurt, should make you feel empty inside like they have every single time Robin has tried to comfort you with them. But with his hands all over you, his thigh grinding against your clit so perfectly, it sends fire through your veins.
He pulls you forward, walking you to his bed. The back of your knees hit the mattress, and he picks you up, palms pressed into your ass. Contrasting the heat of his mouth on yours and his hands all over your body, he gently lays you on the comforter, your hair splaying out over his pillow. He lands on top of you, one hand pressed against the mattress, his knee between your thighs.
And then he pauses. His hand reaches up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your jaw. “God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers, almost in awe. “You know that?”
Blinking up at him, your lips part. Richie never told you things like that in bed. Really, he was almost completely silent besides a few grunts here and there. “You… you don’t have to say stuff like that, Steve. This is just purely sexual,” you murmur, although the words twist something ugly within your chest.
Quickly, he shakes his head. “Just telling the truth, Cookie. I’ve always thought you were gorgeous,” he whispers.
Not giving you a chance to respond, he latches onto your neck again. When you let out soft whimpers, his lips track downwards, wet against your collarbone. He leaves even more blooms of purple in his wake, the wet heat of his mouth feeling like heaven against your skin. Lowering his head, he nips at the spillage of your breasts out of your tank top, a shiver running through your body.
Steve looks up at you through thick eyelashes, his hands sliding up your tank, brushing against your ribs. There’s a question in his eyes, wordless but evident. “Please,” you whisper.
He lets out a warm chuckle against your skin, pulling away to slide the fabric up your body slowly, his eyes darkening with each inch of skin that’s revealed to his hungry gaze. You raise your arms, letting him pull it completely off and throw it behind him somewhere.
A part of you wishes you were wearing something cuter than your old cotton bra, the pink color faded into a beige, but his eyes darken anyway. “God, look at you, honey,” he says, cupping you through the thin fabric, his thumb brushing your hardening nipple.
You sit up slightly and reach behind your back, undoing the clasp. Slowly, he helps you drag the straps off your arms, pulling them away from your body completely. Your tits spill out, goosebumps rising over your newly revealed skin at Steve’s rough gaze. “Fuckin’ hell.” He ducks his head down, taking a nipple into the heat of his mouth.
Immediately, pleasure spikes through your body in ripples, your back arching into his warmth. Steve chuckles against you, his tongue swirling around the firm peak. “So responsive,” he coos, tugging gently on it with his teeth.
His other hand reaches for your other tit, pinching and rolling your other nipple between nimble fingers. You slide your hand through his hair, holding him there. He switches his mouth to the other one, sinking his teeth into the plush skin. Heat pulses between your legs, your panties slick with arousal, sticking to your heated skin.
You grind your pussy against his thigh, searching for any friction you can get. “Needy girl,” Steve mumbles, smirking around your nipple.
In response, you whine, dragging yourself against his leg like a humpy chihuahua. In hindsight, it would be embarrassing how he has you like putty in his hands with only his lips on your tits. But how could you blame yourself, when no one’s touched you like this in an entire year?
“What do you need? Tell me, honey,” he whispers, picking his head up and nuzzling his nose against your jaw, breath prickling your skin.
You whimper, grabbing his wrist. You try… and fail to pull his hand between your legs. Steve tuts with a click of his tongue, his fingers digging into your thigh instead. “Use your words. Where’s that foul mouth?”
“Steve,” you huff, trying again.
His eyes widen in admiration when you yank his other hand downwards, pressing his palm against your pussy. “Stubborn,” he murmurs. Although the contact is more than nice, it’s still not enough. Eyes narrowing at you, he speaks again. “Use your words, or you’re not getting what you want.”
“What happened to ‘I just wanna help?’” You say, despite knowing you don’t have the upper hand here. Not when you’re half naked under him, his body pinning you to his mattress.
He grins down at you, his teeth showing when he grinds his palm against your clit, pulling a breathy moan from your lips. “I do, but you gotta show me how much you want this. That you’re not here wishing it was him.” His voice darkens on the last few words, his smile fading.
Oh.
He’s jealous. Steve Harrington is jealous. “Steven,” you say with a sly smile. “Are you jealous?”
He huffs and rolls his eyes. “I don’t get jealous, Cookie. Especially not over Richie Blake,” he practically spits out his name.
If there’s one thing you’ve known about Steve, he's a terrible liar. So why not poke the bear? “What if I did wish it was Richie? Wish it was his hands all over my body, getting me like this?” You say, reaching out and palming him through his basketball shorts, trying not to let your breath catch at the firmness of him. “That it was his dick twitching in my hand?”
That snaps something within him. He immediately grips your wrists—not painfully, just enough where you can’t wiggle out easily—and pins them to the mattress, his face inches from yours. “Don’t fucking say his name,” he says through his teeth, eyes wild.
Something churns in your stomach, then builds like a forest fire tearing through the brush. Your cunt clenches, your panties feeling far too sticky to be comfortable. They’re practically clinging to you through your shorts. “It’s true,” you whisper, your voice cracking as you say it.
Without giving you a chance to respond, he captures your lips, his tongue licking into your mouth, breath mingling with yours. You moan into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding your aching pussy against his fattening bulge once again.
He reaches down, yanking your shorts and panties in one go. You flinch, cold air dusting over your heated skin as soon as the fabric leaves you. His mouth is still on yours as he explores your body, fingers slipping through your folds. Steve groans when he feels how soaked you are for him, his fingers spreading you wide open. “Real wet for someone thinkin’ about someone else, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the pad of his middle finger pressing firmly against your swollen clit.
“Oh, shit,” you whimper, intense pleasure striking through you as he finds the right rhythm, the right way to move to make you arch up into his touch.
“Like that, yeah?” He murmurs, circling his finger a little quicker, pulling more moans from your lips. You know he doesn’t have to ask; he already knows how gone you are without him doing much of anything.
Quickly, he pulls his fingers away, pulling a protesting whine from deep in your throat. Then, he begins to kiss down your body, his tongue dragging across your soft skin. Your eyes begin to widen when you realize what he’s doing. Steve settles between your legs, his hands wrapping around your thighs and yanking you downward toward his face.
You prop yourself up on your elbows and look down at him between your legs. Big mistake. His hair lies in messy waves over his forehead, his cheeks sun-kissed and freckled. Soft lips are flushed a pretty pink, plump and glistening with your spit. He’s already looking at you through his lashes, eyes half-lidded and glazed over.
The overwhelming warmth spreading through your body at just the sight of him intensifies when his tongue sweeps out, licking a broad stripe from your dripping hole to your clit. You moan a little too loudly, your head plopping back down onto the pillow.
He does it a few more times, tongue parting your folds. A groan vibrates against your skin, his nose pressing against your clit. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmurs, breathing in your scent deeply. “So perfect.”
Your face lights on fire, embarrassment heating your cheeks. Before you can dwell on it, Steve dives in. He laps at your pussy like he’s starving in the desert and you’re the only food in sight, his tongue dragging against your clit with such practiced precision that it makes you keen against him.
“Fuck- Steve!” You moan unabashedly, fingers twisting into the bedsheets, just looking for anything to grab.
A chuckle vibrates against your clit, sending more shockwaves through your entire body. He ducks his head, spearing his tongue inside of you, his nose nudging against your clit. Your hips lift off the bed, moans slipping from you without care. Thighs squeezing either side of his face, Steve pins them down, clicking his tongue once again. Why is that sound so hot?
“Steve, oh my god,” you drag out, eyes rolling back in your head.
He whimpers against you when your hips grind up against his face, needing even more. “Keep doing that, baby, get what you need,” he mumbles, latching right back onto your clit.
“Oh, fuck, right there!” You pant heavily, the coil deep in your stomach tightening until it feels like it’ll snap at any moment.
Just as you feel the rubber band lurching forward, suddenly everything just… stops. Your orgasm dies like a cigarette butt being stomped into the ground, flickering pathetically as it tries to ignite. Your eyes crack open, and you look up at the ceiling in confusion.
Slowly, you prop yourself up on your elbows, looking down between your legs. Steve’s sitting back on his haunches, his lips and chin glistening with your slick. He’s looking at you with a fire in his eyes, a small smile on his lips.
For a second, you think he might’ve miscalculated. Maybe he thought you had already cum? Anger rolls in through your veins, in heavy clouds. Of course you wasted a night on this idiot. “I didn’t finish, asshole! I thought you knew what you were doing.”
“I know,” he just says.
This completely catches you off guard, your eyebrows raising. He doesn’t give you the chance to protest much, however.
“Wha- Steve!” You yelp, eyes widening when he pushes you back onto the bed, a finger prodding at your entrance. He slides it in, pumping slowly. Your eyes widen, your cunt clenching around the intrusion.
When you look at his face, he seems to be searching for something. His finger curls deep within you, prodding with each movement. His smirk deepens when he finds that soft, spongy spot, confirming it when your hips twitch up, a loud whine bouncing off the walls. As soon as he finds it, he presses hard against it, sliding a second finger in.
He splits you apart on his fingers, curling them even harder with each deadly thrust of his wrist. Steve’s thumb presses against your clit, circling around it. The pleasure is so intense it almost burns, his fingers scissoring you open.
You climb up to the ledge a lot quicker than before, already so, so close from your ruined orgasm.
“Fuck, Steve! I’m so close, oh my god!” You moan, eyes rolling backwards.
“Cum for me, baby,” he murmurs.
This time, he lets you topple over the edge. Your cunt clenches around his fingers, your back bowing high off the bed. You cum hard and fast, his name on your lips like a prayer. Steve's fingers still work you, all the way through your orgasm. Except… they don’t stop. His thumb keeps circling your clit, pressing harder even after you’ve already finished.
“Steve!” You whine, squirming away from his touch.
But… he pins you down. He presses against your stomach, preventing you from moving away from his touch. “Hold still for me, honey,” he murmurs, that look of focus on his face returning.
Your nerves feel like they’re on fire, a million little needles pricking your skin. A foreign feeling bubbles deep within your stomach, your eyebrows furrowing. Loud moans fill the room, your thighs shaking violently with the overstimulation.
“Steve, I can’t-“ You sob, tears filling your waterline. “Please, it’s too much!”
“Shh, I know you can take it, baby,” he whispers, stroking your cheek with his other hand, contrasting the roughness of his fingers pounding into you.
Obscene noises fill the room, the loud squelching of your cunt with each thrust of his wrist causing your cheeks to sting. Steve doesn’t seem disgusted; however, it just urges him on more. “You’re soaking my wrist, god,” he mumbles, a wicked smirk on his lips.
His fingers reach a spot within you that has drool pooling at the corner of your lips, your eyes squeezing shut. Your mind is hazy with pure euphoria, nothing on your mind but him. You cum hard, again, yet Steve doesn’t stop, even when you clench around him like a vice.
“Bet he never made you feel like this, hm?” He murmurs, leaning down and peppering your neck in harsh bites.
You’re unable to respond, your vision black with the back of your eyelids, your toes curled so hard they’re cramping.
“He’s never had you like this, drooling, shaking, yeah?” He growls, changing the angle so instead of his thumb, it’s his palm grinding against your clit.
Loud, nonsense murmurs leave your lips; nothing you’re saying makes any sense, and Steve just laughs. It doesn’t feel mocking, however, but in your haze of pleasure you can’t place what it is.
Suddenly, your eyes snap open when a pressure begins to build low within your stomach. It’s unfamiliar but far too familiar all at the same time. Panic rips through your body at a sickening rate, your eyes wide. “Wait- Steve,” you yell, your hips snapping up.
His fingers press firm against your g-spot, your head thrown back and a loud squeal leaving your throat.
Liquid sprays out of you, soaking Steve’s entire arm and shorts, his sheets dampening beneath your ass. “There it is,” he growls.
His fingers continue to roll against your sensitive walls, your cunt clenching around his fingers like a fucking vice, making him almost unable to move them. “You’re doing so good, I know you can give me more.”
With one more grind of his palm against your abused clit, you squirt again, the bed absolutely ruined. You soak his arm all the way to the elbow, his face in absolute awe of you.
You go completely limp, your fingers that you hadn’t even realized were dug deep into his wrist unpeeling from his skin, your trembling legs dropping against the mattress. Chest rising and falling heavily, your heart almost cracks a rib from how hard you’re panting.
“Good girl,” he coos, leaning down and pressing his lips against your forehead, his gentleness almost shocking when compared to his motions from just a few moments earlier.
A wince slices through your teeth when he slides his fingers out, your cunt pulsing with oversensitivity. “Sorry,” he whispers, kissing your temple before flopping down on the bed next to you, facing the ceiling.
Steve gives you your space, letting your body relax and come down from the intense high he brought you to, multiple times. Slowly, you come to, your chest rising and falling at a normal pace, your heart slowing to a light jog. After what could either be five minutes or ten, you throw your arm over your eyes and huff out a soft, “Fuck.”
You feel him shift to his side on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. “You okay, honey?” He whispers, voice soft, his fingers brushing your jaw.
“Mhm,” you mumble, still not really sure what just happened.
You shift just slightly, your heart dropping when you feel the wetness beneath your ass. Immediately, you sit up, your eyes bouncing between Steve’s sheets, comforter, and his clothing. “Oh my fucking god! I’m so sorry,” you rush out, your face tomato red.
Steve also sits up, chuckling as he shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says gently, placing a hand on your shoulder comfortingly.
Except, you’re not listening to a word he’s saying. “Oh my god, I ruined your bed!” You rush out, covering your face with your hands.
“Cookie, it’s just sheets. Eddie has extra. I promise you, it was hot,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face by your wrists. “I promise.”
“Are you sure? I-“ Realization dawns on you, all the color draining from your face. “Steve, holy shit, you made me squirt.”
A loud laugh rumbles from his chest, a hand running through his hair. “I did. Richie ever make you do that?” He tacks on, like he couldn’t help it.
You whip your head toward him, your face completely deadpan. “What the fuck do you think?”
Again, Steve laughs, leaning over to peck your lips. You kiss him back gently, palm against his neck, your thumb sliding against his jaw. “No one’s ever made me do that before,” you admit.
He pulls back, a victorious smile on his face. “Good.”
Shaking your head, you kiss him again, his lips firm against yours. Although it’s not as heated as before, something flickers in the background, growing and sparking.
He shifts, pulling your bare chest against his, his tank rough against your sensitive nipples. You reach out blindly, your palm finding the bulge in his shorts that still hasn’t gone down. You hear him whine into your mouth, his dick twitching against your hand when you squeeze.
“Honey,” he whispers once your hands travel up his tank, pulling it upward. “Hey, hey,” he stops you, grabbing your hands. “We don’t have to. Tonight was about you.”
Shutting him up with another kiss to his lips, you brush his hair out of his face. “It’s not fair I get to feel that good and you just get nothing.”
Any protest he has dies on his tongue when you squeeze his dick again, his hips grinding up into your palm. “Ah- Cookie,” he grunts, head thrown back.
“I want you in me, Steve,” you whisper into the shell of his ear.
Immediately, his eyes snap open, scanning each crease of your face once you pull back. “Are you sure? I mean…” He trails off, motioning to his ruined sheets.
“I can take it,” you say firmly, although you’re not really sure you can.
“Yeah?” He whispers, his thumb pulling your bottom lip down, watching as it snaps back up when he lets go.
“Yeah,” you say back, already tugging his tank top over his head.
Steve snaps out of it, helping you pull it off of him. Before he gets a chance to move on top of you, you push him back, getting a good look at the expanse of newly revealed skin. And god, he’s gorgeous. Dark curls of hair cover the length of his chest, his stomach just slightly toned, a little soft. You can see each dip of his ribs, a trail of hair below his navel dipping all the way into his waistband.
Most eye-catching, though, are the jagged scars that twist into his flesh, deep and tinted purple. Your lips part at the sight, his stomach clenching when you drag your fingers over them. It looks like something bit down into his skin and pulled him apart slowly. The thought alone makes you shudder.
The question dies on your tongue when he follows your gaze, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, a nervous tick you remember from high school. “Story for another day,” he murmurs, gasping low and deep when you lean down to press your lips against each raised scar.
He whispers your name, his eyebrows furrowed in pleasure and something else you can’t place. With shaking hands, you reach down and undo his drawstring, peeling the damp fabric down his thighs. Steve kicks them off the rest of the way, leaving him in nothing but tight navy briefs. Due to the dimness of the room, you’re unable to see much through the dark fabric, not like you could see the silvery scars practically shining on his skin.
Before sliding your thumbs in his waistband and tugging downwards, you take a shaky breath in. You’ve heard far too many rumors about Steve Harrington, so many you can barely keep track of all of them. But the one that you’ve heard most, the one that everyone and their mother spread around in High School? Steve Harrington is hung. Not only is he long, but thick too. You remember sitting in chemistry class senior year, hearing Stephanie Wiggins pop her gum and describe exactly what he’s working with in excruciating detail. Yeah, it was a rough class.
You used to roll your eyes at the chatter, chalking it up to rumors Steve himself spread, that girls who wanted to sleep with him—but never got the chance to—grabbed onto as ‘proof’ that he let them.
But now, you’re a little nervous. After what he just made you do, you’re not sure how much more you’re going to be able to take.
Still, you hook your thumbs lower, pulling the fabric away from him. He lifts his hips, helping you slide them completely from his body. When your eyes flicker back to where your mind has been all night, your heart drops.
Every single rumor you’ve heard? They’re all true. Every last one of them. Even the one where Casey Atkins said his dick was “pretty.” You cringed at it when you overheard her in gym class, but it’s true.
He’s long and thick, the skin tanned and looking so, so soft. The tip is flushed a light pink, precum already leaking down the shaft. Thick veins snake around in coiling lines, enticing you to drag your tongue across them. A trimmed patch of hair sits at his base, connecting to his happy trail that you refuse to admit turns you on to no end.
“You want a picture?” He says coyly, seeing how wide your eyes have gotten.
Your eyes snap up to his, a sly look on his face that you want to kiss off. “Shut up,” you say, your cheeks pink.
“You should watch your mouth, Cookie,” he whispers.
Steve opens his mouth again, probably to tease you more, but every single word dies on his tongue when your small hand wraps around his dick, your thumb swiping out to smear the dot of precum. “Oh,” he breathes out, his lips parting.
To your delight, he lets out soft little whimpers when you lean over and let a string of spit fall from your lips to your fist, making your palm glide easier across his shaft. He throws his arm over his eyes, his throat working with each whine that leaves his lips. “Baby, you keep doing that, I’m not gonna- fuck- last for you.”
The new pet name makes your movements falter for just a second, before picking up speed a moment later. “Then you better pin me down and do something about it,” you say, hoping he gets your insinuation. Despite how sensitive you still are, how the apex of your thighs is still pulsing with overstimulation, you can’t help but want him to manhandle you a bit, to pin you to the bed and get what he needs.
He drops his arm to his side, his eyes snapping to your face at the insinuation. “How do you want me?”
You tilt your head slightly, not really sure what he means, but you answer anyway. “As rough as you want.”
Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, your eyes tracking the movement. “You sure? I don’t wanna hurt you,” he whispers, your name, his voice so sweetly earnest it melts you a bit, despite the lewd situation.
“Please?” You whisper. A thought crosses your mind, words that you know will drive him mad–exactly what you want. “Fuck him out of me.”
The effect is near immediate. Steve’s eyes widen, his eyebrows furrowing so tightly it makes you smile. He lurches forward, fingers digging into your hips and flipping you over, your stomach pressed against the still-damp sheets. It should gross you out, but it does the opposite, your thighs pressing together.
“Ass up,” he grunts, pushing your upper back down to make you arch. When you’re fully exposed to him in the low light, he groans, spreading you open with his thumbs. “Look at this pretty pussy. So wet, all for me," he murmurs, not as a question. A statement.
You blush, knowing how much of yourself you’re giving to him. But you don’t regret it; you don’t feel uncomfortable. Steve makes you feel safe, seen. Loved. Quickly, you shove that thought from your mind quickly. That’s not something you should be thinking about, especially not when the circumstances of this hookup aren’t romantic whatsoever. Purely a favor on his part.
The thoughts bounce out of reach when you feel the blunt head of his dick slide through your dripping folds, once, twice. “Condom?” He asks, pulling back just slightly.
The thought of having him bare makes your stomach clench almost immediately. “I’m on the pill.”
He’s silent. For a moment too long. You think he might be regretting it, that this has gone too far. But when he grabs your ass, his nails digging into your skin, you know that’s far from the truth. “Fuckin’ hell, you want me raw?”
Nodding as hard as you can, you wiggle your ass back onto him, gritting your teeth when a vein drags against your clit. “Don’t pull out.”
“Holy shit,” he breathes out, nearly a disbelieving laugh. “You want me to fill this pussy up, huh? Have you full of me?”
“Please, fuck, please,” you moan out, gripping the pillow in preparation, breathing in his cologne that’s soaked through the fabric.
“Can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” he murmurs, pressing his tip against your weeping hole.
The stretch is quick to come, making you both groan at the same time, Steve’s fingers pressing bruises into your hips. “Fuuckkkk, so tight f’me,” he groans, nearly doubling over.
You almost yell at the burn that’s so good it’s overwhelming, his dick nearly splitting you open. “Fuck, Steve!” You moan out, knuckles cracking at the force of them twisting in the sheets.
He pushes in halfway, your cunt clenching around him, forcing an obscene moan from his throat. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, nails dragging a soothing pattern. “Breathe for me, baby, come on.”
You do as he says, trying to follow his exaggerated breath from the effort of him trying not to slam right into you. He can feel your body relax and flutter around his dick, dragging him deeper. “There we go, so good, you’re doing so good,” he coos, his voice becoming breathy in a way you can’t recall having heard before.
“Deeper,” you whine out, pushing back onto him.
The breath is punched out of his chest when his hips meet yours, his dick fully sheathed within your waiting cunt. “Jesus Christ,” he groans, unable to hold back from rolling his hips.
The fat head of his dick just barely kisses your cervix, your thighs trembling already. You’ve never felt this full before, this sensitive. And no one, especially not Richie, has reached this deep within you before. “Steve,” you whimper pathetically, your eyes squeezing shut.
“I know, I know,” he coos, his thumbs spreading you wider. You can feel him watching in awe as he slowly pulls himself out, all the way to the tip. Then, without warning, he shoves forward, slamming back into you in one brutal thrust.
His headboard slams against the wall, your mouth opening in a silent scream. He does it again and again, the breath quickly stolen from your lungs. “Fuck, take it baby, take this dick,” he grunts, yanking you backwards onto him, spearing into you at a brutal, unrelenting pace.
Each time he punches forward, his tip bullies your g-spot so perfectly that you have to bite the pillow to stop yourself from screaming.
The sound of skin slapping skin bounces off the walls of the cabin, your pussy squelching obscenely loud with each snap of his hips into you. With each thrust in, Steve’s grip on your ass gets tighter, his thumb just barely brushing against your hole.
You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but a fire begins to burn brightly deep in your stomach. It’s a type of want you’ve never felt before, for something you’ve always been curious about. Not able to make out any sounds other than moans and screams, you arch even harder, the pad of his thumb pressed right against it.
His hips still for just a moment before he snaps them forward once again, a breathy laugh tumbling out. “You like that?” He asks, pressing firmer.
Whining out a “yes” is all it takes for Steve to run with it. You feel him spread you open even wider, leaving no amount of decency. A gasp tears out of your throat when you feel a glob of spit land right on your hole, warm and wet.
“Gonna try something, honey, tell me if it hurts,” he grunts out, spreading his spit with his thumb. Then, making your eyes bulge out of your head, you can feel the tip of his thumb push through the tight ring of muscle.
As soon as it does, your stomach tingles, your walls fluttering. It feels strange and new, but so, so good. When you moan his name instead of wincing in pain, he sinks the digit inside down to the knuckle. No one’s ever touched you back there, not even yourself. You moan loudly, bouncing back onto him.
“Fuck, you really like that,” he laughs out, more so in shock than in an effort to humiliate. He keeps his thumb still as he thrusts into your cunt, stretching you wide open with each movement.
Suddenly, he reaches forward, his chest pressing against your shoulder blades. Steve wraps his fingers around your throat, yanking you backward. He sits up on his knees, your back pressed firmly against his front. With his free hand, he grabs at your jaw roughly and tilts your head to the side, his lips locking with yours.
The kiss is more than sloppy, both of you panting into each other's mouths more than kissing. Your eyes flutter open, looking into his. And god, he looks good. A bead of sweat drips down his forehead, his lips parted and his face flushed. His hair is messy and plastered to his forehead with sweat, hanging over the arch of his furrowed brows.
His thumb still thrusts into your tight hole, despite the awkward angle. Steve’s other hand locks around your throat, squeezing your pulse points just barely. It’s not so much where it hurts or makes you panic, but just enough to make your breath leave you in ragged pants.
With both of his hands occupied, your own travel downwards, shaking fingers circling your swollen clit. Once Steve realizes what you’re doing, he groans, his lips brushing your temple.
“Keep touching yourself, baby,” Steve murmurs, his voice so husky that you know he’s close.
Steve knows it too, his efforts doubling. He thrusts his thumb fully inside of you, his fingers tightening around your throat. “Come with me, please, honey,” he pleads.
Drool begins to spill down your chin, tears tracking down your cheeks. You murmur his name over and over, it being the only sound you’re able to conjure up. The coil in you tightens so fast you lose your breath, your head knocking back against his shoulder.
“You can do it, fuck, come on,” he grunts, holding his own orgasm as long as he can.
Then, with one more rough thrust, you come undone. You soar over the edge of your orgasm, your cunt clenching down on him like a vice, your legs shaking and a loud scream tearing from your lips. Steve immediately reaches up, his palm pressed tight against your mouth. It muffles you just enough, your breath hot on his hand.
Then, finally, he buries himself to the hilt, twitching once, then twice. He spills within you, hot cum coating your sensitive walls, intensifying the aftershocks of your own orgasm. Steve’s teeth sink into your shoulder, muffling his own noises.
You sit shaking in his arms, his teeth still sunk into plush skin as you both come down from the intense high. After some time, Steve gently pulls back, kissing the bite and murmuring soft apologies. His thumb drags out of your tight hole, making you cry out once again. “I know, shhh,” he whispers, gently peppering kisses across your neck.
Then, he slowly pulls out of your abused cunt, laying you down on your stomach. He groans, watching his release drip out of your pussy onto his sheets, and he physically has to avert his eyes. Steve sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing sweet circles on your back. You lay there, trying and near failing to catch your breath.
After some urging from Steve, you’re able to blink the tears away, the clouds hovering over your mind clearing. You're able to register gentle kisses on your shoulder blades and the scent of sex lingering in the air. When he hears your breath calm, his fingers draw hearts into your skin. “You okay?”
“Mhm,” you murmur, completely spent and exhausted.
“Did I go too far?” Steve whispers, worry dripping like honey into his tone.
Then, you turn your head and look up at him, your voice sincere. “No. But.. think you’ve ruined me for anyone else,” you're able to get out.
At that, Steve chuckles, brushing your hair away from your sweaty forehead. “I’ll take it you're not still thinking about him?”
The question catches you slightly off guard. “Huh?”
He lets out a loud laugh at the confusion on your face, like he’s completely fucked the man out of you, just like you asked. “Richie,” he clarifies.
You shudder at the thought of him, the feeling you typically get when you hear those two syllables completely bleeding out of your body. “Ew,” you say, nose scrunching in disgust.
Steve just laughs and shakes his head, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “I’m gonna run you a bath, okay? Then I’ll change these sheets.”
Your heart pounds against your ribs at the thought of him taking care of you like that, the feeling weird when it’s associated with Steve Harrington. “You don’t have to do that,” you whisper.
“Oh, Cookie, I definitely have to change these sheets. As much as I love you, don’t think I wanna be sleeping in that all night,” he teases. The words slip out almost mindlessly. You realize he doesn’t even know what he said when he stands up and hums softly to himself while he strolls to the bathroom.
You lay there in his bed, your eyes wide and your breath still. Did he really just say that? Did you imagine it in a post-mind-blowing sex haze? More importantly, why does it make your heart bloom?
You’ve never felt that way about Steve. Not once. Well… perhaps you had a little crush on him in high school when you were friends. Okay, more than a little crush. But love? That’s ridiculous. Sure, you’ve come not to hate him after the night he just gave you. But it’s just the result of all the orgasms he brought you to. Not because you have feelings for him.
Sure, maybe you are very attracted to him. And sure, maybe you only wanted Richie at first because you knew Steve was a mutual friend. But then you fell in love with him!
Oh.
You’ve never admitted that to yourself. You’ve always convinced yourself otherwise. That if you truly wanted Steve to notice you again, you would’ve dated Eddie, or even Jonathan. But looking back now, it was a desperate ploy to get him to speak to you again, to realize he missed you.
Of course, you truly did love Richie at some point in time; you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t. You truly did miss him deeply, too. But maybe, after he broke your heart, the scar was older. Older and deeper than you’d like to admit.
Just as you come to the realization, Steve creeps out of the bathroom, a new pair of boxers covering his body. He stands in the doorway awkwardly, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his head. “Um. I didn’t mean to- uh,” he coughs, and now you realize what he said dawned on him. “Slip of the tongue,” he tacks on haphazardly.
You sit up and tuck your legs beneath you. His eyes don’t even stray from the floor, even when the blanket falls from your shoulders. “Why did you stop talking to me?” You ask, shakily.
“Huh?”
“In high school?” You ask. Your voice isn’t angry; you’ve gone long past anger. You’re just… curious. A tad hurt. “You were my best friend. Was I not yours?”
“Oh honey,” he says, voice cracking. He walks over to you quickly, cupping your face with both his hands. “Of course you were. I was so fucking stupid back then. Tommy and Carol teased me about being friends with you, and I just… I listened. And god, I regret it every day. I regret every day I didn’t talk to you. Every day I pushed you away. You know, last summer? I wanted to apologize. I couldn’t find the words, especially when I saw you with him,” he rushes out. “I’ve been so stupid, Cookie.”
You swallow thickly. “You have.”
Steve chuckles, his thumb brushing against your cheek.
“I think I have, too,” you admit, looking down at your lap.
Just as you can hear him about to protest, you stand up on shaky legs, fingers wrapping around his wrists. You hold his gaze steadily. “I did love Richie; I can’t tell you I didn’t. But… I don’t know. It feels like he’s a step in my path to someone else. To the person I wanted to be with all along.”
Steve’s eyes widen, his eyebrow quirking.
“To you, Steve,” you say with a wobbly smile.
He blinks at you in shock, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he scrapes up a squeaky “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you repeat, leaning in to press your mouth against his in a soft, chaste kiss. Then, with a deep breath, you whisper against his lips, “I love you, too.”
At that, Steve lets out a breathy near-sob, unable to help himself from tugging you against his body, his arms wrapped tight around you. You stand there, chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing in his scent, basking in his touch.
It feels like you’ve come home, like you’ve come up for air after sinking to the depths of the ocean for so long.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
Over the next few weeks, your relationship blossoms and grows. To the dismay of Eddie—who you’ve promptly kicked out of his own cabin multiple times—you spend almost every night with Steve, sometimes naked beneath his sheets, sometimes just resting in his arms while a movie plays faintly on the boxy TV on his dresser.
The only people who know are Robin and Eddie, the former of whom ran around screaming when you first informed her. Although she was slightly suspicious of Steve’s intentions, after speaking with him, she became nothing but supportive of you both.
Although you’d like to shout from the rooftops your love for him, his love for you, you both decided it’s best to keep it quiet. Word spreads fast around camp, rumors wild and violent. There’s no need to give people something to sink their teeth into, especially after the things Richie spread about you.
One night, you’re in your own cabin for a change, Steve’s head ducked between your legs, his favorite spot. He laves at your folds lazily, his finger sliding against your walls nice and slow. Your shirt is pulled up around your neck, his hand squeezing around your tit, your own curled tight around his hair.
You moan softly, grinding your hips against his face. Just as you begin to feel that now-familiar pressure in you build, loud knocks crack against your door.
Steve pauses, his eyes flicking up. You glance toward the door and just shrug, urging him to continue. “It’s probably Robin forgetting something. She’ll go away,” you whisper, only feeling slightly bad for urging her into Nancy’s cabin for the night.
At your word, Steve gets back to work, his finger spearing into you a little quicker now. He groans in frustration when the knocks sound again, louder and quicker. You’re about to tell him to keep going when you hear a familiar voice calling out your name.
Richie.
“Can we talk?”
Steve’s head quickly snaps up, your eyes widening. “The fuck?” He whispers, sitting up on his haunches.
Your heart sinks into your stomach. What could he possibly want? You haven’t spoken to him in a year! When you see Steve about to get up, you place your hand on his shoulder, pushing him downwards. “Heel,” you joke, earning a playful jab to your stomach.
Quickly, you stand up on weak legs, pulling on your pajama shorts and fixing your t-shirt. You don’t bother fixing your hair or your pink cheeks. After all, you don’t have anyone to impress except the guy on your bed, and he’s seen every inch of you.
You pad over the door, opening it only enough for him to see you, just when he’s mid-knock. Richie’s face changes when his eyes rest on you, a small smile crawling its way onto it. If it were a few months earlier, you’d melt.
“What?” You say, slightly snippy. God, you really wanna get back to having your boyfriend's mouth on your clit.
Richie clears his throat and runs a hand through his grown-out buzz, mussing the sandy waves. “I just- I wanted to talk to you.”
“About?” You cross your arms.
“I think- I made a mistake, blossom,” he admits, his old nickname for you not even sparking the smallest of flames within you. “With Hollie.”
You don’t speak, just tilting your head to urge him to either speak or get the hell off your porch. “I miss you, okay? I shouldn’t have let you go. Hollie’s nothing compared to you, my blossom,” he says, reaching forward and taking your hand in his.
Eyes widening, your heart drops. The fucking nerve he has to come crawling back to you after everything he did to you, after everything he said behind your back, too cowardly to say it to your face.
“I want you by my side again, I want you to be my future. Remember what we talked about? California? Us on the beach?” He says, eyes shining.
You pull your hand away, wiping it on your shirt. Richie’s eyes widen just slightly at the motion, his irises swirling with confusion. “Blossom? I know you miss me, baby. I heard you and your friend talking about it just a few weeks ago,” he almost pleads.
“Richie, get lost. We both know you’re doing this because Hollie dropped your ass,” you say, voice firm and final.
His eyebrows furrow in pure confusion. “I don’t- Come on, don’t do that,” he murmurs, reaching out to grab your hand again. When he does, you can hear the bed springs behind you squeak, the noise just barely there.
Suddenly, you feel a large, warm palm wrapping around your waist. You watch as Steve’s fingers wrap around the door, yanking it open to reveal him behind you. “She said get lost,” Steve says, pulling you back against his bare chest.
Immediately, Richie drops his frozen arm, his eyes as wide as saucers. It’s almost comical, really. His eyes dance around the scene in front of him, gaze landing on the bite marks on your neck, the purple marks on Steve’s. The mess of your hair and Steve’s, his state of undress. Finally, his eyes land on the shirt you're wearing. Undeniably, it’s not yours. An old Hawkins High swim team tee.
“What the fuck!” Richie spits out, more so directed at Steve than you. “You’re an asshole, Harrington! What kinda friend fucks his buddy's ex?”
Steve’s arm wraps around you tighter, as if Richie would reach out and take you away from him.
“First of all, we’re not buddies. Second of all, you don’t own her. Especially not after the shit you spewed to everyone about her.”
Richie shakes his head, his face red with anger. “Blossom, you don’t seriously want this prick, be serious! He’s all talk and no dick!”
At that, you can’t help but chuckle, your eyes widening and your palm slapping against your mouth. Richie flinches back, his eyes wild with anger.
“Sorry- I just- this is rich coming from the guy I had to fake orgasms with for a year,” you get out, amusement leaking into your voice.
Richie scoffs, running a hand through his hair. He seems twitchy, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides, like he’s ready to punch something. Or someone.
“Get lost,” Steve says firmly, slamming the door right in his face.
As soon as the wood cracks against the frame, Richie screams profanities on the other side, his boots stomping on the gravel while he storms away, probably off to lick his wounds.
You spin around, wrapping your arms around Steve’s neck, your head tilted up. Anger is settled deep on his face, his eyebrows creased so hard it has to be giving him a pretty strong headache. You smooth out the wrinkle between his brows with your thumb, his face relaxing just barely.
“Calm down, Stevie. Save your energy for me,” you whisper, kissing him gently.
He melts against you, palm pressing against your spine, holding you against his chest.
“I love you, Steve. More than I can say. Not him,” you whisper against his lips, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“I love you more, Cookie,” he says with a smile.
Slowly, you pull back, cupping his jaw. “You know, you’ve never told me why you call me that.”
Steve smiles sheepishly, his breath hitching for a moment. “You really wanna know?”
“Of course I do. You’ve been saying it since ninth grade.”
“I don’t know… You were always just so warm. Comforting. Something I wanted to go to when I had a shitty day.”
You blink at him, your smile wobbly and sincere. “You’re so corny,” you laugh, the sentiment full of so much love.
“That’s why you love me,” he dips his head down, pressing his smile against yours.
୨♡୧
a/n: hope you enjoyed! this fic is unfortunately inspired by my own sad life. fuck you camp guy.
I'd run the risk of losing breath on empty pages,
losing breath on no exchanges,
losing breath on no one waiting
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Summary: Working at an overnight camp--the same camp you’ve been going to since you could walk--should be fun. But it isn’t. Not when all you can see is the boy you used to love, the boy who used to love you, running around, having the time of his life with his new girlfriend.
Everyone loves him. Everyone seems to want him. And you’re forced to watch it, knowing what he did to you, knowing how you feel for him.
Perhaps an old friend could help.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, enemies to loversish?, derogatory language, heavy ex yearning, plot heavy smut, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, ruined orgasm, oral (f-receiving), praise, light anal play (whoops), squirting, fingering, creampie, choking, dom!steve, jealousy, horsecock steve harrington ofc, a sickenening amount of petnames, probably more tbh...
W.C: 13.8k
a/n: this is by far my LONGEST oneshot and the nastiest smut I have ever written to date. I'm both parts happy and shocked with myself. hope you enjoy <3.
୨♡୧
The sun beats down on your back, heating your skin down to the bone. A lingering headache sneaks up your temples, settling deep within your skull. Your black tank–which you’re now regretting immensely–sticks to your skin, sweat sliding down each notch of your spine.
Other counselors chat and laugh around you, oblivious to the storm swirling deep within your stomach. An all-consuming ache that even with months of distance has refused to go away.
How can anyone blame you, though? Although some people might claim you and Richie Blake were nothing more than a summer fling, a brief blink in time, you know you were more than that. You wish, you hope, Richie knows that too.
Your love burned bright and fast, and no matter how long you fought to keep the wick standing, the wax melted too quickly, searing nothing but the memory of him into your skin. Burning all your faults into the creases of your charred palms, all the harsh words he threw at you settling deep within your bones.
Flashes of last summer flood back into your head as they always do, ever-present, never-ending. The ghost of his hands on your waist, the taste of his tongue on your lips. The constant “I love yous” and “I miss yous” even though he was only a few cabins down.
And then, there he is.
Richie shuffles over to a group of his friends, just a few feet away from you. A large, dimpled smile lights up his face, dirty blonde hair swooping high above the arch of his brows. Over all the chatter of other counselors around you, you can still hear that deep, baritone voice. Smooth as honey.
As if the world stops spinning on its axis, time slows down as his eyes slide to yours, through the crowd of people. A part of you hopes for a twitch of his brow, for his entire face to light up like it used to. Except… there's nothing. Then, like it never happened, he turns back to his friends and continues whatever story he’s telling them.
“Stalking him again?” A raspy voice behind you.
You spin around, eyes wide, your heart pounding against your ribs. “Jesus Christ, Robin!”
“Sorry, sorry!” She laughs, the sound escalating when you stick out your tongue at her.
“Seriously though, you have to let him go.” It’s true, of course. Doesn’t mean that the thought of it doesn’t make your heart hurt.
“I mean- come on, Rob? Who does that? Seriously?”
“I know-”
“He told me he loves me! How can you love someone one day, and claim ‘you’re not mentally ready for a relationship?’ Like, hello?!”
Robin cringes, watching you wave your hands around erratically, your face getting redder and redder. She gets it; she really does. But it’s been an entire year since last summer. Robin of all people knows how draining it is to dwell on the same person for so long. After all, her Tammy Thompson is your Richie Blake.
“Hey- maybe we should take a breath?”
Just as you're winding up to argue with her, you look over your shoulder, just wanting one more glance at his beautiful face—when she walks up.
Hollie Carter.
Long, shiny auburn hair falls down her back in soft waves, the sun shining off the loose curls. Tight black shorts vacuum seal themselves to the curve of her ass, her tits popping out of her red bikini top. The plump curve of her lip is smeared in shimmering gloss, her teeth shining white as a smile spreads across her face.
She walks right up to Richie, placing her manicured hand on his bicep. And the look on his face fucking breaks you. His eyes are shining, the dimple on his right cheek appearing almost immediately. You remember the times you pressed your lips against it; you remember the times his eyes used to shine that way when he looked at you.
But they’re focused on her.
And god, she’s fucking beautiful. Everything you’re not. Athletic, funny, put together. Sexy. Everything you were insecure about in his arms.
There were rumors they were talking. You knew they must’ve been true. Hell, even when he was yours, she was all over him. But, fuck, seeing them interact like that? Right in front of you? It hurts. It’s worse than hurt, even. It’s that type of burning ache that tears through your veins, splits your heart open till you’re bleeding into your lungs, choking on every “what if.”
What if you were prettier? What if you were funnier? Smarter?
And yeah, you can’t blame him for moving on. You don’t own him. At this point, it feels like you never had him in the first place. Sometimes you wonder if you were ever even friends?
Robin knocks you out of your spiraling thoughts rather abruptly, sliding in front of you, blocking the sickeningly good-looking couple from your view.
“Okay. Enough of this, I'm serious. You need a Richie detox,” Robin says, stepping to the side when you try to look past her shoulder once you see Hollie getting on her tiptoes to whisper something in his ear. “I’m serious! You should move to be a counselor for the older kids so you don’t have to see him as much!”
In response, you shake your head. You wish it were that easy. “Rob, we’re four weeks into the summer! I can’t just switch bunks.”
“So you’re just going to torture yourself for another five weeks?”
“No- I’ll- I’ll deal with it, okay?! It’s like- it’s not even that big of a deal. I’m over him,” you huff, sounding like you wouldn’t even be able to convince the most gullible person on the face of this planet.
“I’ll talk to our boss, how about that? See what she can do-“
Your conversation is once again interrupted by a chorus of greetings from over Robin's shoulder, and another face you’d really rather not be seeing right now.
Steve Harrington, Richie’s best friend. His right-hand man, if you will. Both you and Robin watch as Steve saunters up to the growing group of counselors and claps Richie on the back. Some kind of energy in the group shifts, like they’re absolutely enthralled by the man.
It does nothing more than fuel your growing anger. Your despair. To you, Steve Harrington is nothing more than a man-child with too much hair. To you, he’s nothing to blink an eye at, nothing to swoon over like every fucking person on this planet does.
Maybe, to other people, you have absolutely no reason to hate him. Just because he’s friends with Richie doesn’t make him an asshole. But you know better. You have a way of reading people, seeing things others can’t. You’re not falling for his spell.
A little tidbit that you know for a fact that Steve would never tell anyone—to him, he’s too cool for the likes of you—is that you used to be friends. Best friends, even. Back in high school. Then he became the king. Really, he just became a fucking asshole. Nothing less, nothing more. He started pushing you away, calling you less, laughing at you when he was with his new shiny friends.
To top it all off, Steve only became close friends with Richie AFTER he broke your heart. They merely rotated in the same circle beforehand! It’s like he did it to spite you. To show that you’ll never be anything more than that weird girl King Steve wouldn’t even spare a passing glance at.
Fucking dick.
Robin, seemingly noticing the steam billowing out of your ears, grabs your forearm and starts to drag you away. “Okay, we’re done here. Back to our cabin!”
“Wait- Robin! I still need to get snacks for my kids!” You say, stumbling into step with her.
As you’re pulled away from the crowd, you don’t notice the honey-thick eyes burning into the back of your head.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
Cold lake-water laps against your ankles, goosebumps littering your skin with each gentle roll of the water. The light from the moon shines on the ripples of the inky black water, cicadas singing somewhere deep within the trees that surround you.
After an entire day of stewing in anger, the sadness came crashing in, like it always seems to do. That crushing, devastating pain sat heavy on your chest, making it almost impossible for you to even think without sobbing. Robin tried to help, forced you to watch all your favorite comedies, scooped you a huge bowl of ice cream, and let you cry on her shoulder. Although it helped for a little, it just wasn’t enough.
So, once she fell asleep on your shoulder halfway through a movie you don’t even remember the name of, you slowly set her head down on a pillow and snuck out to the camp lake. Your happy place, the one place where you feel like you can breathe.
Still, tears silently roll down your cheeks, mixing into the inky water below.
At this point, you begin to think it’ll never get better. This empty hole in your heart just won’t heal; it never will. And what makes it all so awful? Richie doesn’t even care. You know he doesn’t think of you. He doesn’t even spare you a passing glance; how foolish do you have to be to think one day he might miss you?-
Suddenly, footsteps sound on the wood dock behind you, heavy yet unrushed. You quickly wipe your tears on the sleeve of your sweatshirt, sniffling quickly.
“Robin- just go, please,” you whisper, hiding your face to the side, hoping she can’t see the mess of mascara you know is smeared across your cheeks.
“Hollie’s a bitch, you know,” she says.
Except, the voice is not Robin’s at all.
You startle, your neck almost breaking from how quickly you whip your head to the side. “What the fuck?!” You rush out, holding your chest where your heart feels like it’s going to burst out of your ribs from the shock.
You’re face to face with Steve, his face illuminated by only the moon, his hair a messy swoop of chestnut waves. “You shouldn’t let her bother you,” he says casually, his gaze settling on the far side of the lake. A cigarette hangs from his lips, glowing dimly, smoke curling in the air.
Looking at him, bewildered, you open and shut your mouth. “What the fuck do you want?”
Then, he glances back over at you, tilting his head to the side. He pulls the cig from his lips, blowing the smoke in your face. “That’s why you’re crying, right? Hollie and Richie? Or just Richie?”
Scoffing, you scoot away from him, shaking your head. “Steve, seriously, fuck off,” you grunt, waving the pungent smell away from your face.
He’s silent for a moment before you hear shuffling. His feet slide into the water next to yours as he leans back on his hands, relaxing like this is a normal conversation he’s having with one of his closest friends.
“What he did… Was really fucked up. I should’ve said something sooner.”
Slowly, you turn your head to look at him, your lips parting. That’s new.
But also rich coming from him of all people.
“If you really thought that, you wouldn’t have become all buddy-buddy with him a week after it happened. You’re worse than him for that.” Maybe that last part isn’t… completely true. But it feels that way. You haven’t been friends for a long, long time. Yet it feels like a betrayal. That kind of quiet betrayal that sneaks up on you when you least expect it, that keeps you up for weeks wondering why.
He blows out a breath, shaking his head. A few strands of hair fall over his brow, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he debates his next words. “He lied to me about it,” he whispers, taking another drag.
Immediately, you shake your head. “Sure he did. Everyone knew about it last year; he was bragging to his whole fucking friend group. Said he led me on for fun, called me an ugly bitch.”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve exasperates, smoke blowing from his lips when he speaks, his eyebrows twitching. “He said that?”
Just as you're about to fire back at him, you turn to look into his eyes. All you see is genuine shock. And anger. “He didn’t tell you that?”
“I heard rumors from our other friends. I thought it was just bullshit. He seemed so… stand-up,” Steve says, having trouble even getting the words out after what you just said.
In response, you blow out a laugh. “They always do.”
Silence follows, only the sounds of the trees rustling in the wind, the sharp coos of owls just a whisper in the night. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and his cologne, the scent weirdly comforting. From the corner of your eye, you can see him flick the dying butt into the lake beneath his feet, making your eye twitch. But you don’t say anything, snapping your teeth together.
You think back to what Steve said just a few moments ago, about how Richie lied to him. The question sits on your tongue, begging to be let out. But a part of you doesn’t even want to know. For all you know, he could’ve told people that you’re a crazed stalker that casted a spell on him so he’d fall in love.
But curiosity seeps in deep, grabbing a hold of you in its sharp claws. “What did he tell you?”
The man next to you is silent for a moment, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his head. Even in the moonlight you can see a soft dusting of pink creeping up the tips of his ears. “It’s just gonna piss you off…”
“Harrington, I’m already pissed off. Just fucking tell me.”
With a soft sigh, he shakes his head. “He, uh. Told me you slept with his friends when you guys were dating.”
You almost breathe a sigh of relief. It could be worse. It’s not great, but it could be worse. “That’s it? He just wants people thinking I’m a slut?”
“At the same time.”
“Oh.” You’re silent for a moment, your body bracing itself for your next question. “How many did he say?”
Silence rolls back in, Steve’s face almost glowing in the night. It’s certainly a weird sight to see the king so unbelievably uncomfortable. “Five.”
You sputter, choking on your spit. “Five?! Five??! Are you fucking serious?”
“Dead,” he looks over at you, a sheepish look on his face.
“And you believed him? Like, you legitimately believed I had a fivesome. Me? Of all people?”
“I mean- I think that would be considered a sixsome?”
“Steve!” You shove his shoulder hard, almost causing him to tumble into the water.
“I’m sorry! He’s very convincing!” Steve says with a rich laugh, running a hand through his hair.
“Jesus Christ!” You laugh in disbelief, the tears long gone. “You know, he’s the fucking weirdo here. You know what he wanted me to do?”
He cringes, his eyes widening. “Oh god, can I say no?”
Promptly ignoring him, you continue. “He wanted me to watch him fuck my sister. My sister, Steve!”
He immediately turns his body toward you, eyes as wide as saucers. “You’re joking. Holy shit- You’re joking,” he sputters in disbelief.
“I wish I was!” You laugh, almost mad at yourself for putting up with all this bullshit he put you through.
“And you’re still hung up on this asshole?” He says, not in that teasing way that’s crafted to make you feel bad, but in genuine, utter disbelief.
“Fucked up, right?” You shake your head.
Steve’s silent for another moment, a soft laugh filling the empty air. “You need to get under someone else, Cookie. Get that asshole out of your head.”
Both his words and his use of your old nickname make you startle. “First of all, don’t call me that. Second of all, fuck you. I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Whoa! Jesus, not me!” He throws his hands up in front of him, as if you’re about to hit him. “I can hook you up with someone. I know half the guys here.”
Embarrassment simmers low within your stomach at your assumption. “Oh…Right. Still, I don’t want you to be my.. Dick Wingman.”
“Your- Dick Wingman?” Chest rumbling with a laugh, an eyebrow quirks up.
“You know what I mean. I’m perfectly fine without sex.” And it’s true. Mostly. Sure, you’ve been getting slightly frustrated recently. But you’ve just been attributing it to the Richie-shaped-hole left in your heart. You just simply miss his touch, his taste, his warmth. That’s why. Not because you need to get pulverized into a mattress. God, no.
“Come on. Just- What’s your type? I can help you find someone. Call me your matchmaker.”
“No thanks,” you huff, not convinced.
“Look, you don’t have to sleep with anyone. Just tell me your type, and I’ll set you up with someone. You don’t like him, I’ll leave you alone. Won’t ever bring it up again.” Once he notices the unconvinced look on your face, he holds up three fingers. “Scout's honor?”
“You’re not a Boy Scout, Steve,” you mutter, crossing your arms across your chest.
Still, you consider it. What’s the worst that can happen? Like he said, it’s not like you have to sleep with whoever he finds for you. Even still, he could find you someone that you genuinely find attractive! Then maybe, finally, you could begin to get over Richie.
“Fine,” you sigh, taking a moment to consider. “I guess I like funny guys. The kind that can always make you laugh, even if they’re saying something stupid. Someone-“
Steve interrupts you quickly with a shake of his head. “No- I mean physical. Like, blonde, blue-eyed.”
Your eye twitches when you look back over at him. “I’m not that shallow.”
Fearing that he’s lost you again, Steve overexaggerates a pout, his eyes somehow glowing under the light of the moon. “Humor me. Please?”
“Ew, don’t do that,” you laugh, looking away from him. When you look back, he’s still pouting, looking like a kicked puppy. “Okay, okay, fine, stop,” you push his face away, earning a chuckle from his lips.
You take a moment to think. When you really consider it, Richie isn’t much of your type at all. Of course, you find him attractive. You’d be blind not to, really. But you’ve never really had a thing for blondes. That’s a starting point, you suppose.
“I mean, I guess I’ve always had a thing for brunettes,” you say slowly.
“Gotta give me more than that, Cookie,” he winks at you when you throw him a nasty look.
As you think about it, the words begin to tumble out of your mouth in a long, seemingly never-ending stream. “I like brown eyes too. Not exactly brown, actually. I like when guys are pretty, you know? When the sun hits them, and their eyes turn almost golden. When if you look close enough you can see flicks of green in them.”
Steve’s silent for a beat, and you chalk it up to him simply processing your words and waiting for you to continue.
“I like full lips, too. Not when they’re chapped. I don’t know why guys refuse to wear chapstick; I hate kissing someone with dry lips,” you shudder at the thought and continue. “I also think I have a weird thing with noses? I like when guys have big ones. Everyone says it’s ugly, but I think it’s cute.”
“Mhm,” Steve murmurs, but it sounds slightly strained. Still, you continue.
“Oh, and, jumping around here, but I like when guys have nice hair. Last year Richie showed me a picture of him in a buzzcut, and it was… Really, really bad. I just think guys look so much better with lots of hair. I mean, not long hair like Jonathan’s friend. But you know what I mean,” you rush out, letting the words tumble out without even thinking.
To your surprise, Steve is still silent. Quickly, you assume it’s because he expects you to continue. Sure, slight miscalculation on your part, but you keep talking. “I don’t need a guy that’s ripped or anything. I like when guys are a little soft, or lean. Biceps are a must, though. And he doesn’t really have to be that tall—just taller than me.”
Finally, you look over at him, not really sure what else to say. He’s staring at you wide-eyed, his lips parted and a look of absolute bewilderment written all over his face. He stutters a few times, completely unable to even get a single sentence out.
“Wha- What did I say? You told me I can be shallow!”
“No- I- Think about everything you just said,” he finally gets out.
For a moment, you press your lips together, trying to comprehend what you could’ve possibly said wrong. “What? The height thing? I don’t think it’s bad to want someone taller than you.”
He looks at you like you just ran over a puppy, his eyebrows furrowed so tightly you’re worried he might give himself a migraine. Steve says your name slowly, then he gestures to himself.
It takes you a moment to understand what he means, but as soon as you realize, you laugh loudly and roll your eyes. “Steve, not every girl is attracted to you. Sorry to be the one to break it to you.”
“Okay- hold on. Usually, I’d agree with you. But after all that shit you just said? According to you, I’m exactly your type!”
“Oh, Steve, come on!” You scoff.
“Brunette?”
“There’s plenty of brunettes at this camp!”
“Great hair? Tall? Hazel eyes? Big nose? Lean? Cookie, please tell me you’re not that dense,” he says, voice almost begging.
You’re about to argue with him, you’re about to deny, deny, deny. Because, seriously? You? Being attracted to Steve Harrington? You’ve always had an immense amount of pride for not being like all the other girls who fawn and drool over him. But slowly, so slowly, something deep twists within your chest. Realization comes slowly rolling in like waves crashing on the shoreline, the undertow dragging you under with it.
Under the moonlight, you look at him. You really look at him.
And fuck, he’s gorgeous. The moon casts shadows across his face, deepening each curve, his long eyelashes casting a shadow over his face. Freckles are splattered across his tanned skin like constellations, spreading all the way down and hiding beneath his tank top. His hair falls in soft, chestnut waves over the arch of his brow, urging you to run your fingers through them.
And his lips. Oh, fuck, his lips. They’re curved into a teasing smirk, making you wish you could wipe it right off. They’re dusted a baby pink color, plush and full. They look soft, so, so soft.
Okay. You’re fucked. You’re so fucked.
Knocking you out of your trance, you feel fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze to line up with his. “You’re attracted to me, Cookie. Admit it.”
Humiliatingly, you can feel your face glow red, the tips of your ears burning. “I’m- No- God, Harrington, you’re so full of yourself! And- you know what? Your eyes aren’t even hazel, asshole!”
He gives you a deadpan look, his hand dropping from your chin. “Really? That’s the defense you’re going with?”
When you refuse to say anything more, he rolls his eyes. He fishes in the pocket of his shorts, pulling out a small flashlight. Then, he shines it right in his eyes, making him flinch back just slightly.
You see the deep, rich color, specks of gold and deep greens swirling in the thick pool of honey. They almost glow in the artificial light, a siren call that urges you to get lost in them. As soon as the light comes, it ceases when he flicks the flashlight off and shoves it back in his pocket. “Are you done?”
You look down at your lap, hanging your head in shame. You’ve run out of words to defend yourself with, embarrassment sinking deep in your soul. You should’ve just kept your big fucking mouth shut. “Can we just… pretend like this didn’t happen?”
Steve shakes his head sharply, not letting you get away with this so easily. “Nah-ah. I’m still your matchmaker, remember? And we just found the perfect candidate to make you forget all about Richie,” he says, his voice lowering on the last part, the deep baritone going straight into your stomach.
“I’m not letting you stick your dick in me, asshole. Stop trying to pimp yourself out to me,” you say, forcing your eye to twitch despite how those first words make you feel between your legs.
“I never said anything about me fucking you. I don’t even have to take my pants off, you know. I can... make you feel good. Just for a night. Show you that Richie’s not the only guy that knows what he’s doing,” Steve murmurs, walking his fingers up your thigh, his touch gentle, light. Just in case you push it away.
But you don’t. You can’t. Not when waves of molten travel right to your core at the mere thought, at the barely there touch of his fingers. “So- W-what? You’re just going to rub my thigh until I have to fake an orgasm?”
At that, Steve lets out a deep chuckle. “You know I’m better than that,” he says simply, not offering more.
After a deep breath, you shake your head. This whole thing is stupid. Having mediocre not-sex (with Steve Harrington of all people) isn’t going to help you get over the man you love. But a small, tiny fraction of your body aches for touch. Not… specifically Steve’s, right? Just someone’s hands all over your body, the warmth of their lips against yours, their taste on your tongue.
“Okay,” Steve says with a shrug, like it doesn’t bother him. To your surprise, he pulls his hand away and sets it in his lap.
As soon as his warmth leaves you, a chill spills down each notch of your spine, a deep lingering want left behind in its wake. Something akin to a searing desperation, the likes of which you haven’t felt in a long, long time. Not since Richie.
With a shuddering breath in, you give in. You can’t imagine leaving this dock, going back to your cabin and tucking yourself to sleep without at least giving it a try. “Steve?” You whisper, so quietly you’re worried he won’t hear.
Slowly, he turns his head, an eyebrow quirked. “Hm?”
Without so much as another thought, you push his head toward you and surge toward him, your lips pressing against his.
Somewhere in the back of his throat sounds a strangled groan, his entire body freezing. You move your lips against his, almost letting out a moan of your own at how soft they feel against yours. When you pull back, he’s staring wide-eyed at you, blinking at you with nothing but confusion on his face.
“You gonna help me tonight or what?”
His pupils blow, a smirk growing on his face, his eyebrows furrowing in challenge. “You sure?”
“Shut up, Harrington.”
Just as you see the ‘make me’ forming on his lips, you twist your fingers into his shirt, yanking him forward. This time, Steve comes to his senses quite quickly.
His hand slides up your neck into your hair, his nails scraping your scalp as he grabs a fistful. His mouth is persistent and warm, feeling like it’s made to be against yours. “You better be good,” you murmur into his mouth.
Feeling his smirk makes your cunt flutter around nothing, the feeling making you shudder. “Oh, I am, honey,” he says right back.
He slips his tongue out of his mouth, coaxing your lips apart. You allow him to tilt your head to the other side, his tongue slipping into the wet heat of your mouth. A soft whimper leaves your throat at the feeling of his tongue sliding against yours, his taste absolutely intoxicating. Somewhere beneath the lingering smoke on his tongue, you can taste the sharp mint of gum, and a taste so uniquely Steve you can’t help but whine. Fuck, it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
You can feel him smiling against you at your little whimpers, his teeth hitting yours when you press yourself closer to him. The kiss borders on senseless, pure desperation. He licks into your mouth with fervor, your lips glistening in spit, both yours and his.
Once you feel his hand traveling up your shirt, cold fingertips brushing your burning skin, you place your palm on his chest, pushing him back. “We- We should go to a cabin.”
Steve blinks at you, his eyes completely dazed. When his brain is able to catch up with him, he clears his throat and nods. “Eddie’s at Chrissy’s tonight. Mine is empty.”
“Right. Yeah,” you breathe out. The gravity of what you’re about to do starts to weigh on you when Steve stands up and offers his hand, pulling you down the dock.
Hopefully he’s not all talk.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
The walk back to the cabin is silent, your heart matching each heavy footstep you both take. As you get closer and closer, your stomach begins to twist, warmth pulsing between your thighs. The smell of damp grass wafts through the air, the mud beneath your shoes getting softer with each march forward.
When you see Steve’s cabin come into view, dread begins to pulse through your body. What if you can’t get Richie out of your head, and you moan his name instead? And again, what if Steve thinks he’s really that good, when in reality, he’s not? You’ve had a good amount of sexual partners. None of them were really that… mind-blowing. Some of them were downright awful. You shudder thinking about all the times guys have jackhammered their fingers in you, telling you to cum when you weren’t even close.
And Richie? You don’t even remember. That’s how much you loved him. He could’ve been absolutely awful, and you'd have no clue. All you could think about when he was with you, when he was in you, was just that: how your heart is fully his, no one else’s.
Without you even realizing, you end up at Steve’s front door. He takes a moment to fish his keys out of his pocket. You can’t help but notice the way his biceps flex when he twists the key in the knob. At least he’s hot.
Steve cracks the door open, motioning for you to step in. Shuffling to the middle of the room, you take a look around. It’s more or less the same as yours, if not a little messier on one side. With a quick look around, you realize it’s Eddie’s side that’s mostly untidy. Band posters and clutter line the walls and shelves, sheets dark as night. His desk is covered in papers and pens, coffee rings scattered all over it. It’s not disgusting, per se. Just so Eddie that it makes you smile.
Steve’s side of the cabin is… surprising. It’s neat, almost empty. His sheets are navy blue, pillows silk white. His desk has a small pile of papers on it, a line of pens on top. The only light in the room is the little lamp on his desk that he must’ve left on before going to the docks. It smells strongly of citrus soap and Steve’s cologne when you walk over to his desk, the scent infecting your lungs with each inhale. You smile when your fingers brush against a small succulent, googly eyes on the pot.
“Who’s this?” You chuckle.
Quiet as a mouse, Steve comes up behind you, his chin leaning over your shoulder. The sudden barely-there contact makes you shiver. “Jonathan gave it to me. Don’t know how I’ve kept him alive so long.”
“It’s a succulent, Harrington. You have to water them like… four times a year.”
His breath is hot on the shell of your ear when he chuckles, eyelashes brushing your temple. “I don’t think you came here to talk gardening with me, Cookie.”
You can feel your face light on fire, the AC doing nothing to calm the heat of your body. It intensifies when his fingers rest on your hips and turn you around, your faces just barely apart.
The look on his face is earnest when he speaks next, “We don’t have to do this, honey. You can walk out right now. Or just chill here for a little. Up to you.”
Considering it for a moment, you gently shake your head. You’re determined. “No- I want this,” you whisper, voice firm. Final.
With a twitch of the corner of his lips, Steve leans in, pressing his lips to yours once again. Immediately, you can’t help but melt into him, pressing your chest against his, fingers tangling in the soft tendrils of his hair.
Steve deepens the kiss with a sweep of his tongue against the roof of your mouth, a needy whine from your throat following it. He walks you backwards blindly, pinning you to the wall with his body.
The kiss becomes sloppy, his hands traveling across the planes of your body, tracing each dip and curve with warm, eager palms. You gasp into his mouth when his hands travel downward, fingers digging into the plush skin of your ass. With a press of his palms against your ass, he drags your crotch against his.
As soon as the seam of your shorts comes into contact with the firmness of the bulge in his, you let out a frankly embarrassing noise.
“Feel that?” He grunts against your mouth, rolling your hips against his, making sure you feel him kick up against you. “See what you do to me, pretty girl?”
The pet name sends a spark through your body, your legs spreading when Steve kicks them apart just slightly. Then, he presses the corded muscles of his bare thigh against your aching heat, grinding you down onto it. “Steve-“ You whine, eyebrows furrowing as he nips at your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth.
“What do you need? Tell me, honey,” he murmurs against your jaw, his nose nudging your head to the side.
Before you even have the chance to answer him, his teeth sink into the skin of your neck, the sharp pain stinging so good. You let out breathy whimpers as his lips press against the spot, tongue swiping out to soothe the blooming purple. “Fuck- Steve! You’re gonna- ah- leave a mark,” you whine, fingers cording through his hair, holding him against you despite your words.
“Good. Gotta show Richie that you’re bein’ taken care of, yeah?” He murmurs, nipping at your fluttering pulse, the skin jumping as your blood pumps through your body harder, flooding your ears until all you can hear is that thick, syrupy voice. “Show him that you don’t need his pathetic ass anymore.”
The words should hurt, should make you feel empty inside like they have every single time Robin has tried to comfort you with them. But with his hands all over you, his thigh grinding against your clit so perfectly, it sends fire through your veins.
He pulls you forward, walking you to his bed. The back of your knees hit the mattress, and he picks you up, palms pressed into your ass. Contrasting the heat of his mouth on yours and his hands all over your body, he gently lays you on the comforter, your hair splaying out over his pillow. He lands on top of you, one hand pressed against the mattress, his knee between your thighs.
And then he pauses. His hand reaches up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your jaw. “God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers, almost in awe. “You know that?”
Blinking up at him, your lips part. Richie never told you things like that in bed. Really, he was almost completely silent besides a few grunts here and there. “You… you don’t have to say stuff like that, Steve. This is just purely sexual,” you murmur, although the words twist something ugly within your chest.
Quickly, he shakes his head. “Just telling the truth, Cookie. I’ve always thought you were gorgeous,” he whispers.
Not giving you a chance to respond, he latches onto your neck again. When you let out soft whimpers, his lips track downwards, wet against your collarbone. He leaves even more blooms of purple in his wake, the wet heat of his mouth feeling like heaven against your skin. Lowering his head, he nips at the spillage of your breasts out of your tank top, a shiver running through your body.
Steve looks up at you through thick eyelashes, his hands sliding up your tank, brushing against your ribs. There’s a question in his eyes, wordless but evident. “Please,” you whisper.
He lets out a warm chuckle against your skin, pulling away to slide the fabric up your body slowly, his eyes darkening with each inch of skin that’s revealed to his hungry gaze. You raise your arms, letting him pull it completely off and throw it behind him somewhere.
A part of you wishes you were wearing something cuter than your old cotton bra, the pink color faded into a beige, but his eyes darken anyway. “God, look at you, honey,” he says, cupping you through the thin fabric, his thumb brushing your hardening nipple.
You sit up slightly and reach behind your back, undoing the clasp. Slowly, he helps you drag the straps off your arms, pulling them away from your body completely. Your tits spill out, goosebumps rising over your newly revealed skin at Steve’s rough gaze. “Fuckin’ hell.” He ducks his head down, taking a nipple into the heat of his mouth.
Immediately, pleasure spikes through your body in ripples, your back arching into his warmth. Steve chuckles against you, his tongue swirling around the firm peak. “So responsive,” he coos, tugging gently on it with his teeth.
His other hand reaches for your other tit, pinching and rolling your other nipple between nimble fingers. You slide your hand through his hair, holding him there. He switches his mouth to the other one, sinking his teeth into the plush skin. Heat pulses between your legs, your panties slick with arousal, sticking to your heated skin.
You grind your pussy against his thigh, searching for any friction you can get. “Needy girl,” Steve mumbles, smirking around your nipple.
In response, you whine, dragging yourself against his leg like a humpy chihuahua. In hindsight, it would be embarrassing how he has you like putty in his hands with only his lips on your tits. But how could you blame yourself, when no one’s touched you like this in an entire year?
“What do you need? Tell me, honey,” he whispers, picking his head up and nuzzling his nose against your jaw, breath prickling your skin.
You whimper, grabbing his wrist. You try… and fail to pull his hand between your legs. Steve tuts with a click of his tongue, his fingers digging into your thigh instead. “Use your words. Where’s that foul mouth?”
“Steve,” you huff, trying again.
His eyes widen in admiration when you yank his other hand downwards, pressing his palm against your pussy. “Stubborn,” he murmurs. Although the contact is more than nice, it’s still not enough. Eyes narrowing at you, he speaks again. “Use your words, or you’re not getting what you want.”
“What happened to ‘I just wanna help?’” You say, despite knowing you don’t have the upper hand here. Not when you’re half naked under him, his body pinning you to his mattress.
He grins down at you, his teeth showing when he grinds his palm against your clit, pulling a breathy moan from your lips. “I do, but you gotta show me how much you want this. That you’re not here wishing it was him.” His voice darkens on the last few words, his smile fading.
Oh.
He’s jealous. Steve Harrington is jealous. “Steven,” you say with a sly smile. “Are you jealous?”
He huffs and rolls his eyes. “I don’t get jealous, Cookie. Especially not over Richie Blake,” he practically spits out his name.
If there’s one thing you’ve known about Steve, he's a terrible liar. So why not poke the bear? “What if I did wish it was Richie? Wish it was his hands all over my body, getting me like this?” You say, reaching out and palming him through his basketball shorts, trying not to let your breath catch at the firmness of him. “That it was his dick twitching in my hand?”
That snaps something within him. He immediately grips your wrists—not painfully, just enough where you can’t wiggle out easily—and pins them to the mattress, his face inches from yours. “Don’t fucking say his name,” he says through his teeth, eyes wild.
Something churns in your stomach, then builds like a forest fire tearing through the brush. Your cunt clenches, your panties feeling far too sticky to be comfortable. They’re practically clinging to you through your shorts. “It’s true,” you whisper, your voice cracking as you say it.
Without giving you a chance to respond, he captures your lips, his tongue licking into your mouth, breath mingling with yours. You moan into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding your aching pussy against his fattening bulge once again.
He reaches down, yanking your shorts and panties in one go. You flinch, cold air dusting over your heated skin as soon as the fabric leaves you. His mouth is still on yours as he explores your body, fingers slipping through your folds. Steve groans when he feels how soaked you are for him, his fingers spreading you wide open. “Real wet for someone thinkin’ about someone else, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the pad of his middle finger pressing firmly against your swollen clit.
“Oh, shit,” you whimper, intense pleasure striking through you as he finds the right rhythm, the right way to move to make you arch up into his touch.
“Like that, yeah?” He murmurs, circling his finger a little quicker, pulling more moans from your lips. You know he doesn’t have to ask; he already knows how gone you are without him doing much of anything.
Quickly, he pulls his fingers away, pulling a protesting whine from deep in your throat. Then, he begins to kiss down your body, his tongue dragging across your soft skin. Your eyes begin to widen when you realize what he’s doing. Steve settles between your legs, his hands wrapping around your thighs and yanking you downward toward his face.
You prop yourself up on your elbows and look down at him between your legs. Big mistake. His hair lies in messy waves over his forehead, his cheeks sun-kissed and freckled. Soft lips are flushed a pretty pink, plump and glistening with your spit. He’s already looking at you through his lashes, eyes half-lidded and glazed over.
The overwhelming warmth spreading through your body at just the sight of him intensifies when his tongue sweeps out, licking a broad stripe from your dripping hole to your clit. You moan a little too loudly, your head plopping back down onto the pillow.
He does it a few more times, tongue parting your folds. A groan vibrates against your skin, his nose pressing against your clit. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmurs, breathing in your scent deeply. “So perfect.”
Your face lights on fire, embarrassment heating your cheeks. Before you can dwell on it, Steve dives in. He laps at your pussy like he’s starving in the desert and you’re the only food in sight, his tongue dragging against your clit with such practiced precision that it makes you keen against him.
“Fuck- Steve!” You moan unabashedly, fingers twisting into the bedsheets, just looking for anything to grab.
A chuckle vibrates against your clit, sending more shockwaves through your entire body. He ducks his head, spearing his tongue inside of you, his nose nudging against your clit. Your hips lift off the bed, moans slipping from you without care. Thighs squeezing either side of his face, Steve pins them down, clicking his tongue once again. Why is that sound so hot?
“Steve, oh my god,” you drag out, eyes rolling back in your head.
He whimpers against you when your hips grind up against his face, needing even more. “Keep doing that, baby, get what you need,” he mumbles, latching right back onto your clit.
“Oh, fuck, right there!” You pant heavily, the coil deep in your stomach tightening until it feels like it’ll snap at any moment.
Just as you feel the rubber band lurching forward, suddenly everything just… stops. Your orgasm dies like a cigarette butt being stomped into the ground, flickering pathetically as it tries to ignite. Your eyes crack open, and you look up at the ceiling in confusion.
Slowly, you prop yourself up on your elbows, looking down between your legs. Steve’s sitting back on his haunches, his lips and chin glistening with your slick. He’s looking at you with a fire in his eyes, a small smile on his lips.
For a second, you think he might’ve miscalculated. Maybe he thought you had already cum? Anger rolls in through your veins, in heavy clouds. Of course you wasted a night on this idiot. “I didn’t finish, asshole! I thought you knew what you were doing.”
“I know,” he just says.
This completely catches you off guard, your eyebrows raising. He doesn’t give you the chance to protest much, however.
“Wha- Steve!” You yelp, eyes widening when he pushes you back onto the bed, a finger prodding at your entrance. He slides it in, pumping slowly. Your eyes widen, your cunt clenching around the intrusion.
When you look at his face, he seems to be searching for something. His finger curls deep within you, prodding with each movement. His smirk deepens when he finds that soft, spongy spot, confirming it when your hips twitch up, a loud whine bouncing off the walls. As soon as he finds it, he presses hard against it, sliding a second finger in.
He splits you apart on his fingers, curling them even harder with each deadly thrust of his wrist. Steve’s thumb presses against your clit, circling around it. The pleasure is so intense it almost burns, his fingers scissoring you open.
You climb up to the ledge a lot quicker than before, already so, so close from your ruined orgasm.
“Fuck, Steve! I’m so close, oh my god!” You moan, eyes rolling backwards.
“Cum for me, baby,” he murmurs.
This time, he lets you topple over the edge. Your cunt clenches around his fingers, your back bowing high off the bed. You cum hard and fast, his name on your lips like a prayer. Steve's fingers still work you, all the way through your orgasm. Except… they don’t stop. His thumb keeps circling your clit, pressing harder even after you’ve already finished.
“Steve!” You whine, squirming away from his touch.
But… he pins you down. He presses against your stomach, preventing you from moving away from his touch. “Hold still for me, honey,” he murmurs, that look of focus on his face returning.
Your nerves feel like they’re on fire, a million little needles pricking your skin. A foreign feeling bubbles deep within your stomach, your eyebrows furrowing. Loud moans fill the room, your thighs shaking violently with the overstimulation.
“Steve, I can’t-“ You sob, tears filling your waterline. “Please, it’s too much!”
“Shh, I know you can take it, baby,” he whispers, stroking your cheek with his other hand, contrasting the roughness of his fingers pounding into you.
Obscene noises fill the room, the loud squelching of your cunt with each thrust of his wrist causing your cheeks to sting. Steve doesn’t seem disgusted; however, it just urges him on more. “You’re soaking my wrist, god,” he mumbles, a wicked smirk on his lips.
His fingers reach a spot within you that has drool pooling at the corner of your lips, your eyes squeezing shut. Your mind is hazy with pure euphoria, nothing on your mind but him. You cum hard, again, yet Steve doesn’t stop, even when you clench around him like a vice.
“Bet he never made you feel like this, hm?” He murmurs, leaning down and peppering your neck in harsh bites.
You’re unable to respond, your vision black with the back of your eyelids, your toes curled so hard they’re cramping.
“He’s never had you like this, drooling, shaking, yeah?” He growls, changing the angle so instead of his thumb, it’s his palm grinding against your clit.
Loud, nonsense murmurs leave your lips; nothing you’re saying makes any sense, and Steve just laughs. It doesn’t feel mocking, however, but in your haze of pleasure you can’t place what it is.
Suddenly, your eyes snap open when a pressure begins to build low within your stomach. It’s unfamiliar but far too familiar all at the same time. Panic rips through your body at a sickening rate, your eyes wide. “Wait- Steve,” you yell, your hips snapping up.
His fingers press firm against your g-spot, your head thrown back and a loud squeal leaving your throat.
Liquid sprays out of you, soaking Steve’s entire arm and shorts, his sheets dampening beneath your ass. “There it is,” he growls.
His fingers continue to roll against your sensitive walls, your cunt clenching around his fingers like a fucking vice, making him almost unable to move them. “You’re doing so good, I know you can give me more.”
With one more grind of his palm against your abused clit, you squirt again, the bed absolutely ruined. You soak his arm all the way to the elbow, his face in absolute awe of you.
You go completely limp, your fingers that you hadn’t even realized were dug deep into his wrist unpeeling from his skin, your trembling legs dropping against the mattress. Chest rising and falling heavily, your heart almost cracks a rib from how hard you’re panting.
“Good girl,” he coos, leaning down and pressing his lips against your forehead, his gentleness almost shocking when compared to his motions from just a few moments earlier.
A wince slices through your teeth when he slides his fingers out, your cunt pulsing with oversensitivity. “Sorry,” he whispers, kissing your temple before flopping down on the bed next to you, facing the ceiling.
Steve gives you your space, letting your body relax and come down from the intense high he brought you to, multiple times. Slowly, you come to, your chest rising and falling at a normal pace, your heart slowing to a light jog. After what could either be five minutes or ten, you throw your arm over your eyes and huff out a soft, “Fuck.”
You feel him shift to his side on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. “You okay, honey?” He whispers, voice soft, his fingers brushing your jaw.
“Mhm,” you mumble, still not really sure what just happened.
You shift just slightly, your heart dropping when you feel the wetness beneath your ass. Immediately, you sit up, your eyes bouncing between Steve’s sheets, comforter, and his clothing. “Oh my fucking god! I’m so sorry,” you rush out, your face tomato red.
Steve also sits up, chuckling as he shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says gently, placing a hand on your shoulder comfortingly.
Except, you’re not listening to a word he’s saying. “Oh my god, I ruined your bed!” You rush out, covering your face with your hands.
“Cookie, it’s just sheets. Eddie has extra. I promise you, it was hot,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face by your wrists. “I promise.”
“Are you sure? I-“ Realization dawns on you, all the color draining from your face. “Steve, holy shit, you made me squirt.”
A loud laugh rumbles from his chest, a hand running through his hair. “I did. Richie ever make you do that?” He tacks on, like he couldn’t help it.
You whip your head toward him, your face completely deadpan. “What the fuck do you think?”
Again, Steve laughs, leaning over to peck your lips. You kiss him back gently, palm against his neck, your thumb sliding against his jaw. “No one’s ever made me do that before,” you admit.
He pulls back, a victorious smile on his face. “Good.”
Shaking your head, you kiss him again, his lips firm against yours. Although it’s not as heated as before, something flickers in the background, growing and sparking.
He shifts, pulling your bare chest against his, his tank rough against your sensitive nipples. You reach out blindly, your palm finding the bulge in his shorts that still hasn’t gone down. You hear him whine into your mouth, his dick twitching against your hand when you squeeze.
“Honey,” he whispers once your hands travel up his tank, pulling it upward. “Hey, hey,” he stops you, grabbing your hands. “We don’t have to. Tonight was about you.”
Shutting him up with another kiss to his lips, you brush his hair out of his face. “It’s not fair I get to feel that good and you just get nothing.”
Any protest he has dies on his tongue when you squeeze his dick again, his hips grinding up into your palm. “Ah- Cookie,” he grunts, head thrown back.
“I want you in me, Steve,” you whisper into the shell of his ear.
Immediately, his eyes snap open, scanning each crease of your face once you pull back. “Are you sure? I mean…” He trails off, motioning to his ruined sheets.
“I can take it,” you say firmly, although you’re not really sure you can.
“Yeah?” He whispers, his thumb pulling your bottom lip down, watching as it snaps back up when he lets go.
“Yeah,” you say back, already tugging his tank top over his head.
Steve snaps out of it, helping you pull it off of him. Before he gets a chance to move on top of you, you push him back, getting a good look at the expanse of newly revealed skin. And god, he’s gorgeous. Dark curls of hair cover the length of his chest, his stomach just slightly toned, a little soft. You can see each dip of his ribs, a trail of hair below his navel dipping all the way into his waistband.
Most eye-catching, though, are the jagged scars that twist into his flesh, deep and tinted purple. Your lips part at the sight, his stomach clenching when you drag your fingers over them. It looks like something bit down into his skin and pulled him apart slowly. The thought alone makes you shudder.
The question dies on your tongue when he follows your gaze, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, a nervous tick you remember from high school. “Story for another day,” he murmurs, gasping low and deep when you lean down to press your lips against each raised scar.
He whispers your name, his eyebrows furrowed in pleasure and something else you can’t place. With shaking hands, you reach down and undo his drawstring, peeling the damp fabric down his thighs. Steve kicks them off the rest of the way, leaving him in nothing but tight navy briefs. Due to the dimness of the room, you’re unable to see much through the dark fabric, not like you could see the silvery scars practically shining on his skin.
Before sliding your thumbs in his waistband and tugging downwards, you take a shaky breath in. You’ve heard far too many rumors about Steve Harrington, so many you can barely keep track of all of them. But the one that you’ve heard most, the one that everyone and their mother spread around in High School? Steve Harrington is hung. Not only is he long, but thick too. You remember sitting in chemistry class senior year, hearing Stephanie Wiggins pop her gum and describe exactly what he’s working with in excruciating detail. Yeah, it was a rough class.
You used to roll your eyes at the chatter, chalking it up to rumors Steve himself spread, that girls who wanted to sleep with him—but never got the chance to—grabbed onto as ‘proof’ that he let them.
But now, you’re a little nervous. After what he just made you do, you’re not sure how much more you’re going to be able to take.
Still, you hook your thumbs lower, pulling the fabric away from him. He lifts his hips, helping you slide them completely from his body. When your eyes flicker back to where your mind has been all night, your heart drops.
Every single rumor you’ve heard? They’re all true. Every last one of them. Even the one where Casey Atkins said his dick was “pretty.” You cringed at it when you overheard her in gym class, but it’s true.
He’s long and thick, the skin tanned and looking so, so soft. The tip is flushed a light pink, precum already leaking down the shaft. Thick veins snake around in coiling lines, enticing you to drag your tongue across them. A trimmed patch of hair sits at his base, connecting to his happy trail that you refuse to admit turns you on to no end.
“You want a picture?” He says coyly, seeing how wide your eyes have gotten.
Your eyes snap up to his, a sly look on his face that you want to kiss off. “Shut up,” you say, your cheeks pink.
“You should watch your mouth, Cookie,” he whispers.
Steve opens his mouth again, probably to tease you more, but every single word dies on his tongue when your small hand wraps around his dick, your thumb swiping out to smear the dot of precum. “Oh,” he breathes out, his lips parting.
To your delight, he lets out soft little whimpers when you lean over and let a string of spit fall from your lips to your fist, making your palm glide easier across his shaft. He throws his arm over his eyes, his throat working with each whine that leaves his lips. “Baby, you keep doing that, I’m not gonna- fuck- last for you.”
The new pet name makes your movements falter for just a second, before picking up speed a moment later. “Then you better pin me down and do something about it,” you say, hoping he gets your insinuation. Despite how sensitive you still are, how the apex of your thighs is still pulsing with overstimulation, you can’t help but want him to manhandle you a bit, to pin you to the bed and get what he needs.
He drops his arm to his side, his eyes snapping to your face at the insinuation. “How do you want me?”
You tilt your head slightly, not really sure what he means, but you answer anyway. “As rough as you want.”
Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, your eyes tracking the movement. “You sure? I don’t wanna hurt you,” he whispers, your name, his voice so sweetly earnest it melts you a bit, despite the lewd situation.
“Please?” You whisper. A thought crosses your mind, words that you know will drive him mad–exactly what you want. “Fuck him out of me.”
The effect is near immediate. Steve’s eyes widen, his eyebrows furrowing so tightly it makes you smile. He lurches forward, fingers digging into your hips and flipping you over, your stomach pressed against the still-damp sheets. It should gross you out, but it does the opposite, your thighs pressing together.
“Ass up,” he grunts, pushing your upper back down to make you arch. When you’re fully exposed to him in the low light, he groans, spreading you open with his thumbs. “Look at this pretty pussy. So wet, all for me," he murmurs, not as a question. A statement.
You blush, knowing how much of yourself you’re giving to him. But you don’t regret it; you don’t feel uncomfortable. Steve makes you feel safe, seen. Loved. Quickly, you shove that thought from your mind quickly. That’s not something you should be thinking about, especially not when the circumstances of this hookup aren’t romantic whatsoever. Purely a favor on his part.
The thoughts bounce out of reach when you feel the blunt head of his dick slide through your dripping folds, once, twice. “Condom?” He asks, pulling back just slightly.
The thought of having him bare makes your stomach clench almost immediately. “I’m on the pill.”
He’s silent. For a moment too long. You think he might be regretting it, that this has gone too far. But when he grabs your ass, his nails digging into your skin, you know that’s far from the truth. “Fuckin’ hell, you want me raw?”
Nodding as hard as you can, you wiggle your ass back onto him, gritting your teeth when a vein drags against your clit. “Don’t pull out.”
“Holy shit,” he breathes out, nearly a disbelieving laugh. “You want me to fill this pussy up, huh? Have you full of me?”
“Please, fuck, please,” you moan out, gripping the pillow in preparation, breathing in his cologne that’s soaked through the fabric.
“Can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” he murmurs, pressing his tip against your weeping hole.
The stretch is quick to come, making you both groan at the same time, Steve’s fingers pressing bruises into your hips. “Fuuckkkk, so tight f’me,” he groans, nearly doubling over.
You almost yell at the burn that’s so good it’s overwhelming, his dick nearly splitting you open. “Fuck, Steve!” You moan out, knuckles cracking at the force of them twisting in the sheets.
He pushes in halfway, your cunt clenching around him, forcing an obscene moan from his throat. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, nails dragging a soothing pattern. “Breathe for me, baby, come on.”
You do as he says, trying to follow his exaggerated breath from the effort of him trying not to slam right into you. He can feel your body relax and flutter around his dick, dragging him deeper. “There we go, so good, you’re doing so good,” he coos, his voice becoming breathy in a way you can’t recall having heard before.
“Deeper,” you whine out, pushing back onto him.
The breath is punched out of his chest when his hips meet yours, his dick fully sheathed within your waiting cunt. “Jesus Christ,” he groans, unable to hold back from rolling his hips.
The fat head of his dick just barely kisses your cervix, your thighs trembling already. You’ve never felt this full before, this sensitive. And no one, especially not Richie, has reached this deep within you before. “Steve,” you whimper pathetically, your eyes squeezing shut.
“I know, I know,” he coos, his thumbs spreading you wider. You can feel him watching in awe as he slowly pulls himself out, all the way to the tip. Then, without warning, he shoves forward, slamming back into you in one brutal thrust.
His headboard slams against the wall, your mouth opening in a silent scream. He does it again and again, the breath quickly stolen from your lungs. “Fuck, take it baby, take this dick,” he grunts, yanking you backwards onto him, spearing into you at a brutal, unrelenting pace.
Each time he punches forward, his tip bullies your g-spot so perfectly that you have to bite the pillow to stop yourself from screaming.
The sound of skin slapping skin bounces off the walls of the cabin, your pussy squelching obscenely loud with each snap of his hips into you. With each thrust in, Steve’s grip on your ass gets tighter, his thumb just barely brushing against your hole.
You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but a fire begins to burn brightly deep in your stomach. It’s a type of want you’ve never felt before, for something you’ve always been curious about. Not able to make out any sounds other than moans and screams, you arch even harder, the pad of his thumb pressed right against it.
His hips still for just a moment before he snaps them forward once again, a breathy laugh tumbling out. “You like that?” He asks, pressing firmer.
Whining out a “yes” is all it takes for Steve to run with it. You feel him spread you open even wider, leaving no amount of decency. A gasp tears out of your throat when you feel a glob of spit land right on your hole, warm and wet.
“Gonna try something, honey, tell me if it hurts,” he grunts out, spreading his spit with his thumb. Then, making your eyes bulge out of your head, you can feel the tip of his thumb push through the tight ring of muscle.
As soon as it does, your stomach tingles, your walls fluttering. It feels strange and new, but so, so good. When you moan his name instead of wincing in pain, he sinks the digit inside down to the knuckle. No one’s ever touched you back there, not even yourself. You moan loudly, bouncing back onto him.
“Fuck, you really like that,” he laughs out, more so in shock than in an effort to humiliate. He keeps his thumb still as he thrusts into your cunt, stretching you wide open with each movement.
Suddenly, he reaches forward, his chest pressing against your shoulder blades. Steve wraps his fingers around your throat, yanking you backward. He sits up on his knees, your back pressed firmly against his front. With his free hand, he grabs at your jaw roughly and tilts your head to the side, his lips locking with yours.
The kiss is more than sloppy, both of you panting into each other's mouths more than kissing. Your eyes flutter open, looking into his. And god, he looks good. A bead of sweat drips down his forehead, his lips parted and his face flushed. His hair is messy and plastered to his forehead with sweat, hanging over the arch of his furrowed brows.
His thumb still thrusts into your tight hole, despite the awkward angle. Steve’s other hand locks around your throat, squeezing your pulse points just barely. It’s not so much where it hurts or makes you panic, but just enough to make your breath leave you in ragged pants.
With both of his hands occupied, your own travel downwards, shaking fingers circling your swollen clit. Once Steve realizes what you’re doing, he groans, his lips brushing your temple.
“Keep touching yourself, baby,” Steve murmurs, his voice so husky that you know he’s close.
Steve knows it too, his efforts doubling. He thrusts his thumb fully inside of you, his fingers tightening around your throat. “Come with me, please, honey,” he pleads.
Drool begins to spill down your chin, tears tracking down your cheeks. You murmur his name over and over, it being the only sound you’re able to conjure up. The coil in you tightens so fast you lose your breath, your head knocking back against his shoulder.
“You can do it, fuck, come on,” he grunts, holding his own orgasm as long as he can.
Then, with one more rough thrust, you come undone. You soar over the edge of your orgasm, your cunt clenching down on him like a vice, your legs shaking and a loud scream tearing from your lips. Steve immediately reaches up, his palm pressed tight against your mouth. It muffles you just enough, your breath hot on his hand.
Then, finally, he buries himself to the hilt, twitching once, then twice. He spills within you, hot cum coating your sensitive walls, intensifying the aftershocks of your own orgasm. Steve’s teeth sink into your shoulder, muffling his own noises.
You sit shaking in his arms, his teeth still sunk into plush skin as you both come down from the intense high. After some time, Steve gently pulls back, kissing the bite and murmuring soft apologies. His thumb drags out of your tight hole, making you cry out once again. “I know, shhh,” he whispers, gently peppering kisses across your neck.
Then, he slowly pulls out of your abused cunt, laying you down on your stomach. He groans, watching his release drip out of your pussy onto his sheets, and he physically has to avert his eyes. Steve sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing sweet circles on your back. You lay there, trying and near failing to catch your breath.
After some urging from Steve, you’re able to blink the tears away, the clouds hovering over your mind clearing. You're able to register gentle kisses on your shoulder blades and the scent of sex lingering in the air. When he hears your breath calm, his fingers draw hearts into your skin. “You okay?”
“Mhm,” you murmur, completely spent and exhausted.
“Did I go too far?” Steve whispers, worry dripping like honey into his tone.
Then, you turn your head and look up at him, your voice sincere. “No. But.. think you’ve ruined me for anyone else,” you're able to get out.
At that, Steve chuckles, brushing your hair away from your sweaty forehead. “I’ll take it you're not still thinking about him?”
The question catches you slightly off guard. “Huh?”
He lets out a loud laugh at the confusion on your face, like he’s completely fucked the man out of you, just like you asked. “Richie,” he clarifies.
You shudder at the thought of him, the feeling you typically get when you hear those two syllables completely bleeding out of your body. “Ew,” you say, nose scrunching in disgust.
Steve just laughs and shakes his head, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “I’m gonna run you a bath, okay? Then I’ll change these sheets.”
Your heart pounds against your ribs at the thought of him taking care of you like that, the feeling weird when it’s associated with Steve Harrington. “You don’t have to do that,” you whisper.
“Oh, Cookie, I definitely have to change these sheets. As much as I love you, don’t think I wanna be sleeping in that all night,” he teases. The words slip out almost mindlessly. You realize he doesn’t even know what he said when he stands up and hums softly to himself while he strolls to the bathroom.
You lay there in his bed, your eyes wide and your breath still. Did he really just say that? Did you imagine it in a post-mind-blowing sex haze? More importantly, why does it make your heart bloom?
You’ve never felt that way about Steve. Not once. Well… perhaps you had a little crush on him in high school when you were friends. Okay, more than a little crush. But love? That’s ridiculous. Sure, you’ve come not to hate him after the night he just gave you. But it’s just the result of all the orgasms he brought you to. Not because you have feelings for him.
Sure, maybe you are very attracted to him. And sure, maybe you only wanted Richie at first because you knew Steve was a mutual friend. But then you fell in love with him!
Oh.
You’ve never admitted that to yourself. You’ve always convinced yourself otherwise. That if you truly wanted Steve to notice you again, you would’ve dated Eddie, or even Jonathan. But looking back now, it was a desperate ploy to get him to speak to you again, to realize he missed you.
Of course, you truly did love Richie at some point in time; you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t. You truly did miss him deeply, too. But maybe, after he broke your heart, the scar was older. Older and deeper than you’d like to admit.
Just as you come to the realization, Steve creeps out of the bathroom, a new pair of boxers covering his body. He stands in the doorway awkwardly, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his head. “Um. I didn’t mean to- uh,” he coughs, and now you realize what he said dawned on him. “Slip of the tongue,” he tacks on haphazardly.
You sit up and tuck your legs beneath you. His eyes don’t even stray from the floor, even when the blanket falls from your shoulders. “Why did you stop talking to me?” You ask, shakily.
“Huh?”
“In high school?” You ask. Your voice isn’t angry; you’ve gone long past anger. You’re just… curious. A tad hurt. “You were my best friend. Was I not yours?”
“Oh honey,” he says, voice cracking. He walks over to you quickly, cupping your face with both his hands. “Of course you were. I was so fucking stupid back then. Tommy and Carol teased me about being friends with you, and I just… I listened. And god, I regret it every day. I regret every day I didn’t talk to you. Every day I pushed you away. You know, last summer? I wanted to apologize. I couldn’t find the words, especially when I saw you with him,” he rushes out. “I’ve been so stupid, Cookie.”
You swallow thickly. “You have.”
Steve chuckles, his thumb brushing against your cheek.
“I think I have, too,” you admit, looking down at your lap.
Just as you can hear him about to protest, you stand up on shaky legs, fingers wrapping around his wrists. You hold his gaze steadily. “I did love Richie; I can’t tell you I didn’t. But… I don’t know. It feels like he’s a step in my path to someone else. To the person I wanted to be with all along.”
Steve’s eyes widen, his eyebrow quirking.
“To you, Steve,” you say with a wobbly smile.
He blinks at you in shock, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he scrapes up a squeaky “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you repeat, leaning in to press your mouth against his in a soft, chaste kiss. Then, with a deep breath, you whisper against his lips, “I love you, too.”
At that, Steve lets out a breathy near-sob, unable to help himself from tugging you against his body, his arms wrapped tight around you. You stand there, chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing in his scent, basking in his touch.
It feels like you’ve come home, like you’ve come up for air after sinking to the depths of the ocean for so long.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
Over the next few weeks, your relationship blossoms and grows. To the dismay of Eddie—who you’ve promptly kicked out of his own cabin multiple times—you spend almost every night with Steve, sometimes naked beneath his sheets, sometimes just resting in his arms while a movie plays faintly on the boxy TV on his dresser.
The only people who know are Robin and Eddie, the former of whom ran around screaming when you first informed her. Although she was slightly suspicious of Steve’s intentions, after speaking with him, she became nothing but supportive of you both.
Although you’d like to shout from the rooftops your love for him, his love for you, you both decided it’s best to keep it quiet. Word spreads fast around camp, rumors wild and violent. There’s no need to give people something to sink their teeth into, especially after the things Richie spread about you.
One night, you’re in your own cabin for a change, Steve’s head ducked between your legs, his favorite spot. He laves at your folds lazily, his finger sliding against your walls nice and slow. Your shirt is pulled up around your neck, his hand squeezing around your tit, your own curled tight around his hair.
You moan softly, grinding your hips against his face. Just as you begin to feel that now-familiar pressure in you build, loud knocks crack against your door.
Steve pauses, his eyes flicking up. You glance toward the door and just shrug, urging him to continue. “It’s probably Robin forgetting something. She’ll go away,” you whisper, only feeling slightly bad for urging her into Nancy’s cabin for the night.
At your word, Steve gets back to work, his finger spearing into you a little quicker now. He groans in frustration when the knocks sound again, louder and quicker. You’re about to tell him to keep going when you hear a familiar voice calling out your name.
Richie.
“Can we talk?”
Steve’s head quickly snaps up, your eyes widening. “The fuck?” He whispers, sitting up on his haunches.
Your heart sinks into your stomach. What could he possibly want? You haven’t spoken to him in a year! When you see Steve about to get up, you place your hand on his shoulder, pushing him downwards. “Heel,” you joke, earning a playful jab to your stomach.
Quickly, you stand up on weak legs, pulling on your pajama shorts and fixing your t-shirt. You don’t bother fixing your hair or your pink cheeks. After all, you don’t have anyone to impress except the guy on your bed, and he’s seen every inch of you.
You pad over the door, opening it only enough for him to see you, just when he’s mid-knock. Richie’s face changes when his eyes rest on you, a small smile crawling its way onto it. If it were a few months earlier, you’d melt.
“What?” You say, slightly snippy. God, you really wanna get back to having your boyfriend's mouth on your clit.
Richie clears his throat and runs a hand through his grown-out buzz, mussing the sandy waves. “I just- I wanted to talk to you.”
“About?” You cross your arms.
“I think- I made a mistake, blossom,” he admits, his old nickname for you not even sparking the smallest of flames within you. “With Hollie.”
You don’t speak, just tilting your head to urge him to either speak or get the hell off your porch. “I miss you, okay? I shouldn’t have let you go. Hollie’s nothing compared to you, my blossom,” he says, reaching forward and taking your hand in his.
Eyes widening, your heart drops. The fucking nerve he has to come crawling back to you after everything he did to you, after everything he said behind your back, too cowardly to say it to your face.
“I want you by my side again, I want you to be my future. Remember what we talked about? California? Us on the beach?” He says, eyes shining.
You pull your hand away, wiping it on your shirt. Richie’s eyes widen just slightly at the motion, his irises swirling with confusion. “Blossom? I know you miss me, baby. I heard you and your friend talking about it just a few weeks ago,” he almost pleads.
“Richie, get lost. We both know you’re doing this because Hollie dropped your ass,” you say, voice firm and final.
His eyebrows furrow in pure confusion. “I don’t- Come on, don’t do that,” he murmurs, reaching out to grab your hand again. When he does, you can hear the bed springs behind you squeak, the noise just barely there.
Suddenly, you feel a large, warm palm wrapping around your waist. You watch as Steve’s fingers wrap around the door, yanking it open to reveal him behind you. “She said get lost,” Steve says, pulling you back against his bare chest.
Immediately, Richie drops his frozen arm, his eyes as wide as saucers. It’s almost comical, really. His eyes dance around the scene in front of him, gaze landing on the bite marks on your neck, the purple marks on Steve’s. The mess of your hair and Steve’s, his state of undress. Finally, his eyes land on the shirt you're wearing. Undeniably, it’s not yours. An old Hawkins High swim team tee.
“What the fuck!” Richie spits out, more so directed at Steve than you. “You’re an asshole, Harrington! What kinda friend fucks his buddy's ex?”
Steve’s arm wraps around you tighter, as if Richie would reach out and take you away from him.
“First of all, we’re not buddies. Second of all, you don’t own her. Especially not after the shit you spewed to everyone about her.”
Richie shakes his head, his face red with anger. “Blossom, you don’t seriously want this prick, be serious! He’s all talk and no dick!”
At that, you can’t help but chuckle, your eyes widening and your palm slapping against your mouth. Richie flinches back, his eyes wild with anger.
“Sorry- I just- this is rich coming from the guy I had to fake orgasms with for a year,” you get out, amusement leaking into your voice.
Richie scoffs, running a hand through his hair. He seems twitchy, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides, like he’s ready to punch something. Or someone.
“Get lost,” Steve says firmly, slamming the door right in his face.
As soon as the wood cracks against the frame, Richie screams profanities on the other side, his boots stomping on the gravel while he storms away, probably off to lick his wounds.
You spin around, wrapping your arms around Steve’s neck, your head tilted up. Anger is settled deep on his face, his eyebrows creased so hard it has to be giving him a pretty strong headache. You smooth out the wrinkle between his brows with your thumb, his face relaxing just barely.
“Calm down, Stevie. Save your energy for me,” you whisper, kissing him gently.
He melts against you, palm pressing against your spine, holding you against his chest.
“I love you, Steve. More than I can say. Not him,” you whisper against his lips, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“I love you more, Cookie,” he says with a smile.
Slowly, you pull back, cupping his jaw. “You know, you’ve never told me why you call me that.”
Steve smiles sheepishly, his breath hitching for a moment. “You really wanna know?”
“Of course I do. You’ve been saying it since ninth grade.”
“I don’t know… You were always just so warm. Comforting. Something I wanted to go to when I had a shitty day.”
You blink at him, your smile wobbly and sincere. “You’re so corny,” you laugh, the sentiment full of so much love.
“That’s why you love me,” he dips his head down, pressing his smile against yours.
୨♡୧
a/n: hope you enjoyed! this fic is unfortunately inspired by my own sad life. fuck you camp guy.
And I hate to make this all about me
But who am I supposed to talk to?
What am I supposed to do
If there's no you?
Fourteen months. Four hundred and twenty six days and you finally learn who has been leaving daisies for your sister.
pairing: steve harrington x mayfield!reader
words: 4.9k
contains: angst (hurt/comfort), friends to lovers, (slight) second chance romance, mayfield!reader, mention of grief, hospitals, max in a coma, mention of a feeding tube, set between season four and season five, eldest daughter core, mummy issues, brief mention alcoholism, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: bit of a heavy one but i was really in the mood to write an angsty mayfield reader fic and i was listening to 'soon you'll get better' by taylor and got this idea. this is another pretty personal fic to me as last year my brother was really ill and i had the awful experience of seeing a younger sibling really unwell. sending love to others who relate 💗
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The steady beep, beep, beep from Max’s heart monitor had become a constant companion of yours over the past fourteen months.
The sound should comfort you, should act as a reminder that your sister was still here, that she was still alive, that her heart was still beating. But after fourteen months, after four hundred and twenty six days—all that the sound reminded you of was the fact you had not heard your sister's voice or seen her smile in well over a year. That you were beginning to forget the colour of her eyes and the sound of her laugh.
It was also becoming increasingly harder to hold onto hope that she would get better, that she would ever wake up. But you did, somehow. Because she was your little sister and there was nothing else you could do other than tell yourself that she would someday wake, that she’d get to graduate, go to college and know a life that didn’t involve demogorgons or the Upside Down.
But seeing her—the girl you had taught how to ride a bike and a skateboard, the girl you had always sworn to protect—lying in that hospital bed day in and day out with no sign of ever regaining consciousness, it bore an unimaginable kind of pain. The kind that had you begging to a higher power that you didn’t even believe in, trying desperately to reason with whatever force was keeping her from you. You had even begged Vecna (if he was even listening) to take her place, to let it be you instead of her. But it didn’t work, nothing did. Not music, not you and Lucas talking to her, not even El could find her.
But still, you showed up each and everyday to the hospital. To hold her hand, to play her Kate Bush songs until visiting hours were over, to cut her hair when it was getting too long and to play card games with Lucas as you both tried to convince yourselves that it was only a matter of time before Max woke up.
The feelings of guilt however were much more difficult to distract yourself from. The feeling had edged itself so deep within you that it lived under your skin, had crept its way into your bones and settled there, refusing to leave. The fact that you felt as though you had failed to protect your little sister and the worry that she hated you for not doing enough to save her. It was all consuming but you buried it deep. You told everyone you were fine. Because you had to be. For Max, for your mom, for Lucas, for everyone who cared about your sister.
Nowadays, your days were a blur of hospital, work, the WSQK, hospital, work, the WSQK. Just like today, where you had spent your morning visiting Max before heading to work, then after a shift at the diner going to the WSQK to help Nancy with planning an upcoming crawl. Usually, you would head straight home afterwards, make dinner for your mom and then stay up watching TV so you wouldn’t be alone with your thoughts.
But today, Nancy hadn’t needed as much help as she had initially thought with crawl preparations and you left the radio station while there was still two hours left of visiting time at the hospital. And so, you headed straight over to Hawkins Memorial Hospital to see your sister.
You hum along mindlessly to the music as you sit on one of the chairs beside Max’s bed. Kate Bush’s music was just another constant soundtrack to your day when visiting Max. You had thought by now that you would be sick of the sound of the opening beat to Running Up That Hill since it was all you played for Max but truthfully, you weren’t even a tiny bit sick of it. Because it was what you believed could be the bridge between the here and now and wherever Max was, that the song was the key to bringing her home.
Your eyes dance around the room, at the dull, grey hospital walls before they land on the drawing just above Max’s bed, the one she had drawn of her and Lucas on their would-be date at the movies. The sight of the two stick figures holding hands had always made you smile while simultaneously ripping your heart in two.
You glance then towards the abundance of gifts that sat on a table directly opposite Max’s bed. You can see one of Will’s paintings leaning against the wall, some friendship bracelets that El had made her, cards from Dustin and Mike and an album of pressed flowers that Lucas was in the process of making for her.
There was once a time where flower arrangements once adorned the table, an abundance of soft pinks and sunny yellows that made the room feel brighter. But fourteen months on and the number of bouquets had dwindled significantly. But still, someone—you were sure it was Claudia Henderson as you had seen her buying bunches of daisies on many occasions—always left a bunch of daisies on the table every few days. The sight of them always made you since, since daisies had always been your favourite.
You notice however that the daisies in the vase beside the window had begun to wilt and you were just beginning to wonder if you should throw them away when the door to Max’s room opened and one of her regular nurses, Nurse Rogers, walks in.
“Oh! Hello, Miss Mayfield,” she greets you with a kind, warm smile. “You’re not usually here at this time.”
You smile back, ignoring the slight pity you see in her expression as she looks at you. It was a look that you were used to after so long. People who saw you as the poor Mayfield girl who was in denial about her sister.
“Yeah, um, had some free time,” you say, your fingers digging into the soft cushion of the chair beneath you. “I figured that I should give her some company.”
Nurse Rogers smiles kindly—she doesn’t remind you that there was no evidence that Max was even aware of your presence and for that, you were grateful.
“I’m sure that she appreciates it,” she says, bustling into the room and pulling a rattling hospital cart along behind her. “I just need to replace her feeding tube. Shouldn’t take too long.”
You nod, despite the lump that had suddenly risen in your throat. Because your baby sister needed feeding tubes, because even after fourteen months, seeing Max in this position—it never got any easier. Never.
The nurse set about changing Max’s feeding tube but you couldn’t watch. You felt like a coward—because she was trapped under Vecna’s spell or whatever it was keeping her in the coma while you were in Hawkins, mostly safe and lucky to not be wherever she was. Trapped in her body, bed ridden and unable to find her way home. And yet—you couldn’t watch the nurse change her tubes, couldn’t face the fact that without all this machinery, without medical intervention that your sister would probably be dead. You couldn’t face it. You just couldn’t.
“All done,” Nurse Rogers announces after a minute or two where you had been fiddling with a loose thread on your shorts.
You sit up, your eyes stinging as you glance over at your little sister, at the tube in her mouth that made you want to burst into tears.
“Thank you,” you say thickly, quickly wiping away a stray tear that had fallen and forcing a smile.
But Nurse Rogers notices.
“She’s still here,” she tells you, placing a gentle hand on your arm and giving you a squeeze. “You gotta be strong, honey. Your sister still needs you.”
You swallow the lump that had formed in your throat and do your best to blink away the tears that were threatening to fall but to no avail. Because it had been fourteen months of hoping and you were tired.
“Yeah. You’re right.”
Nurse Rogers smiles at you just as there was a knock on the door. You have enough time to collect yourself as another nurse walks in.
“Hi, Miss Mayfield,” she greets you, smiling in a way that told you that she could plainly see the teartracks down your cheeks but was choosing to ignore them for your sake. “Sorry, Mags but you’re needed in Room 14.”
You feel Nurse Rogers’—Mags—hand withdraw from your shoulder and you find that it leaves you feeling a little more than empty inside. Her warm, almost motherly touch had made you realise how long it had been since you had felt that. Because you couldn’t remember a time since Max had been in a coma where your mom had truly felt like your mom. You had taken it upon yourself to take care of her, making sure that she was eating, making sure she was taking care of herself and not drinking to excess like she had been when Neil had left shortly after Billy’s death.
It had become a strange dynamic but you knew without it that your mom would have fallen apart and so, you had done it without being asked and without complaint. You also knew you would continue doing it until Max woke up. But you couldn’t deny that it left you feeling a little bit numb to your own emotions and desperate for your mom to just hug you because you needed it.
“I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything,” Nurse Rogers tells you, a softness in her eyes that makes you feel almost like a child who doesn’t want to be alone right now. “Seriously. Anything. Just come and get me, okay?”
You nod again, grateful despite the fact you knew that you weren’t to take her up on the offer.
You don’t trust yourself to talk, don’t trust the way you were on the verge of tears and so, you just simply smile at her before turning your attention back to Max, taking her hand and telling yourself not to cry in front of the nurses.
Nurse Rogers seems reluctant to leave you but the nurse who had walked in clears her throat and both of them leave the room to return to their duties.
The door closes softly behind her and you hear the footsteps of both nurses as they walk down the hall. Part of you feels relieved that you were finally alone with your sister and the other part of you was so sick of being alone.
You let out a shaky breath, steeling yourself before looking back at Max. But the sight of your baby sister with a feeding tube down her throat makes the tears near impossible to stop. You feel your bottom lip quiver and your legs begin to shake.
You couldn’t cry in front of Max. You couldn’t. Even if she couldn’t see you, feel you or know that you were even in the same room. You refused to let her see you like this.
And so, you stand up on shaky legs and head towards the door without a second glance back at your sister.
You walk down the hall and head straight for the bathroom. You can feel the eyes of other patients, of families waiting on news of their loved ones in the hallway linger as you pass by. You hear them whispering about the ‘Mayfield girl’, asking each other if you were the sister who refused to give up. They’re trying to be quiet but you were attuned to what everybody said about you, about Max, about your family, about the fact everyone in town thought you were in denial, that keeping Max alive was cruel and your family were just delaying the inevitable. No matter how quiet the whispers were, you had heard it all.
But thankfully, there was no one else in the hospital bathroom when you walked in. Which, you were grateful for considering that the very first thing you did as soon the door slammed shut behind you was burst into tears.
There was no build up, there was no opportunity to stop the sobs that shook your body. Your hands shake and your breathing becomes erratic as the tears are slipping down your cheeks.
Fourteen months.
Four hundred and twenty six days and you fucking missed your sister.
You missed her stealing your clothes because she thought they were “cooler” than hers. You missed her forcing you to watch horror movies despite the fact that you couldn’t stand them. You missed going to the arcade with her and giving her half your pocket money just to see her smile. You missed fighting with her about whose turn it was to do the dishes, you missed watching skate off down the street to see her friends and you missed the way she would always hug you before leaving.
You missed her so much that it went beyond physical pain. You felt as though part of you was missing, as though it had been ripped away from you. You felt it when you saw her jacket waiting for her by the front door and when you noticed dust collecting on her skateboard.
You would do anything to switch places with her. You would face any storm, would tear down mountains and walk through fire for it to be you in that hospital bed instead of her. Because all you wanted was for Max to be okay.
But it didn’t matter what you were willing to do to switch places with her. Because she was still in that hospital bed, tubes coming out of her mouth and no amount of bargaining was going to save her.
It was a reality that you were finding it increasingly difficult to face.
You emerge from the hospital bathroom almost fifteen minutes later. Your cheeks feel red raw from where you had been rubbing away your tears and there’s a dull ache behind your eyes from how much you had cried.
You make your way back to Max’s room, sniffling as you did so. Thankfully, you don’t run into Nurse Rogers and have to explain why you were in such a state. But it wasn’t the first time that you had cried in that bathroom and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
You can hear Kate Bush still playing from inside of Max’s room as you approach and the familiar music pulls your focus back.
Max.
She’s still here. You gotta be strong, honey. Your sister still needs you.
And with Nurse Rogers’ words still ringing in your ears, you push open her hospital room door.
“—and then Robin had this really terrible idea of having an advice segment but every time a woman would call up to complain about her boyfriend she would just tell them to dump him and—”
The last thing—the very last thing—that you expected to hear when you walk back into Max’s room was the sound of Steve Harrington’s voice.
Your breath catches, everything around you feels a little fussy as you see him sitting on the chair beside her bed that you vacated only fifteen minutes ago.
At the sound of the door closing behind you, Steve stops talking and looks up.
When your eyes finally meet his, everything around you stills.
“Hey,” Steve greets you softly and with a small smile.
“Hi,” you say quietly because you didn’t know what else to say.
Because fourteen months ago, you had finally told him that you loved him after you had thought you lost him to a swarm of demobats. And fourteen months ago, he had told you that he felt the same. He had promised to take you out on a date when everything with the Upside Down was over. But then everything that had happened with Max had derailed those plans entirely and though Steve tried and tried again to be there for you, you pushed him away. And you did so by breaking his heart the only way you knew how.
You did it by repeating the words that Nancy had once said to him. Called him “bullshit” and told him that you didn’t love him. That it was just adrenaline talking after almost watching him almost die. You still remember the look of utter devastation on his face, still remember the way he had gone uncharacteristically quiet, the bag of groceries he had bought for you and your mom still tucked under his arm.
“You don’t mean that,” he had said, his voice thick with emotion. “You don’t.”
“I do,” you had told him, the words like knives in your throat. Because you didn’t mean it. Because you loved him, you really fucking loved him. And it was because you loved him that you knew you needed to let him go. Because the proof that you couldn’t protect the people you loved was laying in a hospital bed.
Your plan had worked, Steve had avoided you after that. You still ran into each other every now and then, at the WSQK mainly where Steve worked alongside Robin or during briefings before crawls. But you had not been alone together since the night you had broken his heart outside of your trailer.
“You okay?” Steve asks, pulling you from your thoughts.
Fuck, you hate the way he speaks so softly to you, his voice full of concern even after everything you had done to him.
“Yeah,” you say too quickly, looking at his face and hating even more just how handsome he still was. Those honeyed brown eyes that made you feel warm inside, the moles scattered around his face and neck and the thick, chocolatey brown hair that you still found yourself wanting to run your fingers through.
Steve looks as though he doesn’t believe you and you couldn’t exactly blame him.
“Just um—allergies,” you sniffle, wiping your nose and looking away from him. “Just really bad this time of year.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, unconvinced. “I bet.”
You don’t look back at him. Because the thought of him visiting your sister and talking to her about things as mundane as working at the radio station was making your heart do traitorous things in your chest. You could feel the tears already threatening to fall again.
You were just trying to think of an excuse to leave when something beside the window catches your eye.
“Was Dustin’s mom just here?” You ask Steve, your eyes on the fresh bunch of daisies that had replaced wilted ones you had seen earlier.
“Huh?” Steve asks, confused as follows your gaze and looks over at the daisies. “No, um, it’s just me.”
You blink, brows pulled together in confusion before you finally look back at him.
“But the daisies, I thought it was—”
“—they weren’t from Claudia,” Steve says, the tips of his ears turning red as he looks back at you. “The daisies are from me.”
Your eyes flicker from his face before they move back over to the daisies. “H-has it—has it always been you?”
“Yeah,” Steve admits quietly. “Always.”
Something about that admission that breaks something inside of you. Perhaps it was the part of you that was desperately trying to hold yourself together, the part of you that was crying out for help or maybe it was the part of you that had convinced yourself that breaking Steve Harrington’s heart was the right thing to do.
“Oh, please don’t—”
Steve rises from his chair, not even finishing his sentence as he crosses the room in a few quick steps to catch you before you could break down into floods of tears.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he tries to hush you gently, one arm wrapping around you while the other hand gently pushes your hair back so he could see your tear stained face more clearly. “Don’t cry. It’s just flowers—”
“—it’s not just f-flowers, Steve,” you stutter out, the tears falling so thick and fast that you couldn’t stop them. “It—it’s the f-fact you’ve been b-been le-leaving them f-for her for m-months and I—I di-didn’t kno-know it was y-you.”
You watch as Steve swallows thickly, his eyes fixed on your face as he seems to mull over his next words carefully.
“I didn’t—the flowers weren’t—they weren’t necessarily for Max,” Steve begins quietly, his thumb carefully wiping a tear from your cheek. “They—they were all for you.”
Your heart feels as though it splits open that.
Because for fourteen months—four hundred and twenty six days—Steve Harrington had been leaving you flowers in your sister’s hospital room and you had no idea.
“Daisies. They’re still your favourite, right?” He asks when you remain speechless. You nod numbly, your breath catching as you look back at him with wide eyes feeling your heart pounding in your chest.
“But why—”
“I just—I just wanted you to have something in this room that was—that was just for you. Because all this—it’s been tough on you too. Really fucking tough. And I wanted you to have something in this room that reminded you that people care about you too. That I—that we all are still thinking about you.”
“I d-don’t de-deserve that,” you say quietly, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as though you were trying to decide whether or not to pull him closer or push him away. “I don’t de-deserve it, Steve. I don’t—”
“—you do,” Steve tells you firmly, his expression shifting to something close to agony as he watches you crumble in front of him. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that you don’t deserve—”
“—I c-couldn’t pr-protect her, Stevie,” you start to sob, the old nickname falling from your lips before you could stop it. You miss the way his expression falters, the way his own eyes become glassy. “I-I failed a-and I-I can’t d-do anything to h-help her. I d-don’t de-deserve an-anything l-like that.”
“Oh, babygirl,” Steve murmurs, pulling you in and wrapping his arms around you as though it was enough to protect you from everything that hurt inside of you. “You did everything you could. You didn’t fail. You have never failed your sister even a day in your life.”
“I-I just w-wish it w-was me i-instead,” you cry, burying your face into his shirt as you sob into him. “I just w-wish it was m-me.”
Steve doesn’t say anything, his heart cracking open at your words. He doesn’t argue with you, just pulls you closer and cups the back of your head with one large hand. Because he felt the same. Like you, he had spent nights wishing it had been him instead of Max.
And he also knew that if it was you in that hospital bed, he would move heaven and the earth to switch places with you.
“I know,” he whispers, pressing his lips to the side of your head as you continue to sob into him. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
The only thing he can do after that is hold you while you cry. His arms act as an anchor around you that refuse to let you go for even a second.
You aren’t sure how long you stayed there, weren't sure how long you cried into his shirt for. All you knew was that when you finally pulled away from him was that his shirt was covered in wet blotches from your tears.
“Sorry,” you murmur, your voice a little hoarse as you look at his face. “About your shirt.”
“It’s okay,” Steve tells you gently, the smallest of smiles tugging at the very corner of his mouth. “S’just a shirt.”
You very nearly smile but something stops you. The memory—the one that had haunted you for the past fourteen months—of Steve’s face outside of your trailer as you broke his heart into pieces. The reminder that you didn’t deserve his kindness, his sympathy and you certainly didn’t deserve flowers.
“Sorry,” you say again, not entirely sure what you were apologising for as your fingers release the front of his shirt. “I shouldn’t have—”
“—I forgive, you know?”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to control the swell of emotions in your chest at his words.
“You shouldn’t,” you say finally with a shake of your head. “I was cruel to you, Steve. So cruel. You should hate—”
“—don’t try and tell me what I should or shouldn’t feel,” Steve says in a calm but stern voice, one that makes you swallow. He pulls away from you only to rub his hands over his face in frustration, his shoulders tightening as you imagine him reliving that conversation over again in his head. “I knew exactly what you were doing. I knew you didn’t mean it. That’s why I forgive you.”
“But Steve—”
“—no, listen to me, baby, okay? I forgive you. I—I will always forgive you. I don’t care if you think that you don’t deserve it. It’s too late. I’ve already done it.”
You say nothing at first, not trusting your voice as you look back at the man you had never stopped loving.
Steve can perhaps see your apprehension in your face and so, he presses on, “And I—shit—I thought that maybe the daisies would let you know that. That I forgave you and maybe—maybe that we’d find our way back to each other eventually or something.”
“Steve,” you begin gently, your shoulders sagging slightly at his words, at the almost hopeful expression on his face. “I—I can’t—”
“—why not?”
You swallow, your eyes flickering from Steve over to Max who was still laying in her hospital bed, like she had been for the past fourteen months.
“—Steve, you’re always taking care of people,” you say as you look back at him with a careful expression. “And I—I can’t be another burden to you like that. I just can’t.”
You watch as Steve’s jaw clenches at your words, at the way something flashes in his eyes. He takes a breath before he lifts a hand to gently cup your face, the gesture so gentle that you couldn’t help the small breath you let out.
“You are not nor could you ever be a burden to me,” Steve tells you in a fierce voice. “Yeah, you’re going through a lot. But I can help. I want to help. Because bottling it up, pretending you’re fine and taking care of everyone else but yourself isn’t going to help you.”
“But you—”
“—and if Max knew what you were doing—if she knew that you weren’t letting people take care of you, she’d be heartbroken.”
You wanted him to be wrong. You wanted so badly for him to be wrong. But you knew, deep down, that he wasn’t. You knew that if Max saw the way you had become a shell of yourself, if she knew that you cried alone in hospital bathrooms with no one to hold you, if she knew that you had hurt Steve just to push him away—she wouldn’t forgive you.
When you say nothing, Steve takes a step closer, his eyes studying your expression carefully.
“I’ve forgiven you. Now it’s time for you to forgive yourself.”
Fuck. You could have cried all over again.
“I don’t—I don’t know how to do that,” you whisper back, feeling like a child who was about to be scolded as you turn to look away from Steve.
But Steve’s hand on your cheek gently turns your head to prevent you from doing so.
“That’s okay,” he whispers, his other hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together. The simple act makes you feel more alive than you had ever been and as he lifts your entwined hands to rest over his chest, you feel his heartbeat thumping through his shirt, feel the warmth of his skin against yours like a soothing balm. “Just start by letting me in.”
You’re quiet then, at war with yourself as you try not to think of all the reasons you should say no. They swirl around in your head, taunting you. The guilt, the fear, the worry. All of it. But one glance towards the vase of daisies that stood in front of the window—the reminder that for four hundred and twenty six days that Steve Harrington hadn’t given up on you—seems to quiet them.
It’s time to forgive yourself.
You couldn’t imagine a more courageous act but as you look back at Steve, you find that the task doesn’t seem so daunting with him there to catch you.
“Do you—do you wanna go grab a burger and a milkshake after visiting hours?” You ask him, a smile pulling at the corners of your lips as you give his hand in yours a gentle squeeze. “My treat.”
It takes Steve several moments to process your words and the moment that he does so, you see the reverence, the softness in his expression that was reserved only just for you.
“Anywhere you wanna go,” Steve tells you, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your hairline. “I’ll go. Always.”
You can’t stop the smile from spreading across your face at the feeling of his lips brushing against your skin after far, far too long. The beep, beep, beep from Max’s heart monitor reminding you that she was still alive, that you were still alive and that maybe forgiving yourself sometimes began with burgers and a milkshake.
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This had been your 7th date with Steve, and he was such a gentleman. He had waited until your third date to ask for a kiss, which was a short kiss on your cheek.
After going to a nice Mexican restaurant and then getting ice cream, all paid by him, which he had insisted on, he walked you up to your door at the end of the night.
“So I guess this is good night,” Steve sighed.
“I guess so,” you said, breaking your lips into a smile before reaching your hands up to cup his face. “Is this okay?” you whispered softly.
“Mhm,” Steve hummed before you closed the gap with a kiss on his lips, which he quickly deepened before pulling back with a boyish grin spreading across his face.
For a moment you stared at each other before you broke the silence. “Uh, do you want to come in for a glass of wine?” you asked softly.
“I’d love to,” Steve said.
You quickly turned around to unlock your door. Before stepping in, you turned nervously toward Steve. “Umm, just so you know, I have a stripper pole in my living room,” you said with a giggle before entering the house, leaving Steve in the doorway trying to process the words that had come out of your mouth.
He entered the house, and you locked the door behind him. before walking into the kitchen leaving steve to step into the living room, he was met with a silver stripper pole in the middle of the room. You came out of the kitchen with two glasses and a fancy bottle of wine to be met with a frozen Steve staring at your stripper pole, which made you giggle.
“You like what you see, Steve?” you purred.
Only for Steve to snap his neck to look at you like a deer in headlights.
“I-wha-no, huh-? I-“ Steve stammered, clearly flustered, which made you giggle even more as you made your way to the coffee table, placing the wine bottle and glasses on it.
“I can show you how it works if you want? I would just have to change quickly,” you offered while gesturing to your outfit, a pink baby doll top with a white mini skirt and white kitten heels.
“I-wow, no-what! No, I mean yes, I’d like that,” Steve mumbled, his cheeks turning a pink color.
You giggled before placing a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
You opted for a black bikini set with lace on the trim and matching heels. After fixing your makeup and looking at yourself one final time, you confidently strutted out of the bathroom and into the living room, stopping in front of Steve.
His cheeks and ears turned a deep red color and his lips parted in an O as his grip on your throw pillow tightened, clearly hiding his hard-on underneath. “Wow,” Steve breathed out, his eyes raking down to your heels, then up your legs, your lacy panties, and your bra, before landing on your face.
“Do you want to pick a song?” you asked softly.
“I-no, you can pick what you want,” Steve muttered out quietly.
“Okay,” you said, bending down to kiss his cheek before walking over to your record player and placing the Rick James Street Songs vinyl on it. “Super Freak” played out loud before you strutted to the pole, leaning toward it. “You know, you’re the only person I’ve done this for, Steve,” you purred. “Have you seen a stripper pole before?”
Steve’s eyes were still wide. “I-no, this is my first time doing something like this.”
You giggled, circling around the pole. “Then we can be each other’s first,” you said before you hooked one leg around the cool metal arching your back as you spun slowly, letting the beat of the music guide your movements, you rolled your hips sensually, the lace of your lacy panties brushing against the pole as you slid down into a smooth squat.
thighs parting teasingly before rising again, Steve’s breathing grew heavier, his eyes locked on every movement and curve on your body.
you climbed higher than before inverting your self into a a upside down spilt, your breast threatening to spill from your lacy bra. When you righted yourself, you pressed your back against the pole, sliding down it while running your hands over your body—cupping your tits, trailing your fingers down your stomach, and playing with the waist band of your panties with your thumbs.
Steve shifted on the couch, moving thw throw pillow off his lap, his cock visibly straining against his pants now. “Fuck… you’re incredible,” he whispered hoarsely.
amused you dropped to your knees and your crawled your way to steve with a sultry smile.
You rose between his spread legs, pressing your barely covered breasts against his chest as you straddled on his lap. His hands finally moved, gripping your waist tightly.
You could feel how hard he was underneath you. Grinding slowly against his bulge, you leaned in and kissed him deeply, tongues tangling as the song’s bass pulsed through the room. Steve groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down to squeeze your ass.
“Bedroom?” you breathed against his lips.
“Too far,” he whined.
in one swift motion he flipped you onto your back on the couch, peeling your bikini top off slowly and latching his mouth onto one of your nipples. You moaned loudly as he sucked hard, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud while his fingers pinched the other. His free hand pushed your panties aside, rubbing your swollen clit in slow circles before sliding two thick fingers deep inside your soaked pussy.
You arched into him, gasping. “Steve… please…”
He worked you open with his fingers, curling them against that perfect spot until your legs were shaking. Then he dropped lower, spreading your thighs wide and burying his tongue in your pussy. He licked and sucked like a man starved, focusing on your clit while his fingers kept thrusting. You came hard on his face, crying out his name as pleasure flooded your body.
Before you could recover, Steve stood, shedding the rest of his clothes. His cock was thick and heavy, the tip glistening. You slid off the couch onto your knees, looking up at him as you took him into your mouth. Steve groaned deeply, his hand gently threading through your hair as you bobbed on his length, swirling your tongue around the head and taking him deeper with every pass.
“Fuck, baby… your mouth feels so good,” he panted.
You sucked him eagerly until he pulled you up and bent you over the arm of the couch. He rubbed his cock along your slick folds before thrusting in deep from behind. The angle made you moan loudly as he filled you completely. Steve set a punishing rhythm, hips slapping against your ass while one hand reached around to rub your clit.
He fucked you hard like this until your second orgasm hit, your pussy clenching tight around him. Steve pulled out slowly, flipping you onto your back again, and climbed between your legs. This time he entered you slowly, savoring every inch as he buried himself to the hilt.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper as he rocked into you. His thrusts were deep and steady, grinding against your clit with every movement. He kissed you messily, swallowing your moans while his hands roamed your body squeezing your breasts, gripping your hips, and pinning your wrists above your head.
“I’m gonna come again,” you whimpered.
“Come with me,” he groaned.
You shattered around him for the third time, your whole body trembling. Steve followed right after, thrusting deep and spilling inside you with a long, guttural moan, filling you with pulse after pulse of his cum.
You both stayed locked together, breathing hard and covered in sweat. After a few moments, you cupped his face and whispered softly, “Stay the night, Steve. Please? I don’t want you to leave.” kissing his cheeks and then his nose.
He smiled warmly, still buried inside you, and kissed you tenderly on your lips. “I’d love to stay.”
You took his hand and led him to your bedroom and into the bathroom, turning on the water on the warmest setting. The two of you stepped into the shower together under the warm spray. It was gentle and intimate rather than sexual. Steve carefully washed your back and hair while you soaped his chest and shoulders. You traded soft kisses under the water, letting the day wash away. He wrapped you in a big fluffy towel afterward and carried you to bed.
You curled up against his chest, his strong arms holding you close, legs tangled together.
“So, do you do that for work?” Steve asked sheepishly. “Not like I would judge or anything.”
His question made you giggle against his chest.
“No, it’s kind of a hobby,” you replied. “I got the pole as a joke after getting drunk with my best friend, and I just kinda learned by myself. When I said you were the first person I’ve done this in front of, I meant it.”
You listened to his steady heartbeat for a moment before he spoke again. “Well, I’m really happy to be your first. God, that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Steve breathed out.
Looking into his eyes, you spoke softly, “I really like you, Steve. I enjoy our time together.”
Steve smiled softly before kissing you on the lips. He pulled away just enough to speak. “I really like you too, and I’m willing to take you on as many dates as it takes till you become my girlfriend and get sick of me.”
You both giggled softly together before slipping into sleep as the exhaustion from the night finally caught up with you both.
Safe and warm in his embrace, you fell asleep together.
i actually did quite a little research about stripping before i wrote this so it could be as accurate as possible so enjoy my loves🥹
warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, big dick!steve harrington ofc, size kink, cursing, little bit of insecure steve, def a lot more.
word count: 4.5k
You and Steve have been seeing each other for a little over two months and in that time, he’s pulled out all the works. Thoughtful date planning, never showing up empty handed, never letting you touch a door or see the bill.
He listened when you spoke, always eager to give his two cents, and he remembered every little detail you let slip. He was enamored with you in every sense of the word. It didn’t take him long to introduce you to the group and just like himself, everyone adored you.
Even if he couldn’t put it in exact words, he knew you were the one. He woke up thinking about you and fell asleep thinking of you. You were it for him, he was sure of it.
And right now, Steve Harrington was trying his best to remember all the chivalrous ideals his mother instilled in his head.
But as you sat perched on his lap, thighs bracketing his own, and your hips grinding against his cock – well, he suddenly felt a whole lot less gentleman like.
It’s late in the evening, you’d invited Steve into your house after another date gone perfect. He really did try to keep things classy – allowing himself to hold your hand or keep a palm at your lower back without over doing it. But when you dragged him to your bed with the promise of a movie? He didn’t stand a chance.
Your mouth smacks against his, the sloppy sounds bouncing off the walls around you. Your fingers were tangled in the nape of his hair, gripping and tugging every time he deepened the kiss.
He moaned against your mouth while his fingers squeezed at your hips. Subconsciously, his palms began following the movements of your hips – dragging your panty covered core over the inseam of his jeans.
Your hips stuttered at a particular drag, your lips parting as you breathe into his mouth.
Steve smirks against your mouth. “Yeah? That the spot, baby?”
You mewl against him. Your nails scratch against his scalp, all while you continue to grind against him. He stifles a smug chuckle against your lips and instead, sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, carefully pulling it back into his mouth.
He swallows down every moan you give him, savoring it on his tongue. Your shaky hands slip from his hair and slide between the two of you while you grab at his belt buckle. You fumble with the metal a few times before you’re able to unclasp it and in seconds, you pull it free and throw it to some forgotten corner of the room.
Your fingers continue their journey across his jeans, clawing at the zipper until it begins to slide it down.
Suddenly, Steve’s hands clasp around your hips in a real hold and he forces you still. He pulls his mouth from yours, the sound of both of your heavy breathing mixing together. He gently pushes you back so your bottom sits closer to his knees than his hips.
All he can focus on is the sad, confused look on your face as you look up at him.
“Are – Are you okay?” You ask softly and he’s quick to pick up on the insecurity blanketing your voice.
He swallows and for a second, he’s not sure how to respond.
It always goes like this. You and Steve can makeout for what feels like hours at a time but the moment he thinks it’s going too far, he stops.
It’s not that he didn’t want to have sex with you – he did, more than anything – but you two weren’t exactly official yet and he wanted to do things the right way. He didn’t want to rush things with you.
And maybe he was a little scared of how you would react when it happened.
Steve was a humble man, he could acknowledge the looks he had and the privilege it gave him. He was also acutely aware of just how much .. package he was given. It wasn’t always an issue, not entirely at least, but he knew there would always be a chance he could hurt you and he was ready to do everything to prevent that.
Even if that meant blue balling himself.
He keeps his hands on your waist, giving the skin a gentle and reaffirming squeeze.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” He smiles softly. “I just – I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,”
The shake of your head you give him is so fast it’s nearly comical. “I’m not uncomfortable.”
His stomach flutters at the sheer conviction in your voice. He gently pecks your lips.
“It’s okay baby, let’s stop here.” His voice is so kind that it almost doesn’t make sense for your response to be a frown, but it is and it’s deep. He hates being the cause of it.
He doesn’t push you off his lap and you don’t make a move either. Your eyes have casted away from his own, instead they stare intently at the necklace resting against his chest.
There’s a deep crease between your brows and your mouth is still turned down into a frown. He can see the questions and confusion swirling behind your eyes. Just as his lips part to speak, your voice fills his ears.
“Have I been reading all of this wrong?” You ask suddenly and your eyes filter back to his own. He stares back at you, his lips slightly parted, and the look on your face is enough to have him worried.
You keep talking.
“You’re a great guy, Steve, a really great one and it’s been weeks of us hanging out and going on dates, and even making out, but..” Your voice trails off just slightly. His eyes glance down to where your fingers have been nervously playing with the hem of his shirt, scratching at the frayed fabric. “But you always stop before it gets too far and if you’re like, not into sex then that’s – that’s okay, really! I’d – I’d never pressure you or anything but I just, I don’t want you to feel like you have to be with me or something.”
By the time you’ve finished, your voice has gotten significantly quieter and timid. You won’t look him in the eye and as your words hang in the air, he feels guilt heavy in his gut.
He’s never wanted to make you feel unwanted by him, but clearly his intention didn’t help.
Carefully, he brings both hands to your cheeks and holds them between his palms. Your eyes are glassy and you still avoid eye contact but when he brushes your skin with his thumb, you meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry I made you feel like that, sweetheart.” The look in his eyes is so sincere that you regret saying anything. You shake your head in his hold.
“You don’t have to apologize Steve, really. I’m – I’m being dramatic. We can just watch a movie, yeah?”
When you shift to slide off his lap, Steve’s hands drop back to your thighs and he holds you firmly in place. Your wide eyes stare back up at him and you let him pull your body closer, all the way until you’re settled right over his hips again. You’re hovering right over his cock and you’re both aware of how much muscle you’re using to keep yourself up on your knees. He doesn’t rush you.
“You’re not dramatic,” He says quietly but firmly. You let him continue. “It’s not that I’m not into sex or not into you because trust me baby, I’m really into you,” A smile grows across your lips as he speaks and he feels the guilt in his chest slowly dissipate.
“Then what is it?” You ask softly, your hands carefully sliding up his bare arms until your palms rest against his shoulders.
He pauses then. He has every intention of being honest about his worries but he’s not sure how to say it without you laughing in his face. But when he looks at you, all he sees is the most open and curious expression. So, he bites the bullet.
“I’m worried about hurting you, baby.” He says. Your brows furrow at his confession and he can tell it did little to offer any clarity. Steve swallows and slowly runs his palms up and down your sides – he tells himself it’s to comfort you but it’s really for him. “This is gonna sound like.. really weird, okay? Believe me, I know how it’s gonna sound,” He breathes. You nod quickly, a wordless way to let him continue.
He keeps eye contact with you and takes a few seconds to put his words together. Steve wasn’t just worried about sounding like a fool, he was worried about the outcome of the entire situation. You wouldn’t be able to help this being a problem even if you didn’t want it to be, and what was the alternative? Go through with it and have you in pain or force you into a relationship without sex? It felt like a lose-lose.
But as he looked at you and that beautifully curious look in your eyes, he knew he owed you the chance to make the decision for yourself.
He takes a deep breath. “It’s – when I’ve had sex before, there’s been like, a problem I guess. Sometimes..” Steve can’t bear to look you in the eyes as he finishes his sentence and with a flaming face, he focuses on your pleated skirt instead. “Sometimes I can’t always fit.”
Everything freezes.
Not just slows down or dims – no, it stills.
Steve continues looking down at your lap, his mind running a million miles an hour as he waits for you to say something. Or laugh – he’s really betting on your response being a laugh.
Honestly, he’s just ready for the ground to crack open and swallow him whole. Anything would be better than the complete silence buzzing in his ears – especially with you still firm in his lap.
Then your voice fills the silence.
“Like.. you’re too big?” Your voice is gentle, almost like you’re coaxing it out of him. He grimaces at your question, the skin of his face covered in a blush. He’s entirely too embarrassed to respond so instead, he nods. Just one, timid little nod but it’s enough.
Any day now, Hell. Just drag me under. He thinks.
“Can I see?”
Steve’s head shoots up to look at you. Your face is relatively emotionless – but calm and open, he can see. You’re not judging him or laughing. Your hands are still holding onto his shoulders, your thumbs tracing little circles against his shirt.
He swallows. “You don’t – you don’t have to, baby. We can wait a bit longer.”
You nod in response but nuzzle closer into his lap. Not to tease him, just to be close. Your head dips and you bring your mouth to hover over his. Your lips brush, just enough to feel a touch of electricity but not enough to satisfy either of you. “I want to, Stevie. It’s okay.”
His eyes flutter shut, his mind and body already getting lost in you. Whatever kind of hold you have on him has him addicted and he doesn’t ever want to be sober again.
He’s nodding before he even notices. “We’ll go slow, yeah? And if you wanna stop, you can tell me. I promise I’ll listen.”
His words ignite a fire in your stomach – a warm, gentle fire. You smile back at him. “I trust you.” You respond simply.
An identical fire lights in his own stomach and without another word, his mouth surges onto your own again. You both moan out of relief into each other’s mouth and in seconds, each of your hands are clawing at each other – at any part you can reach and feel.
Steve devours your mouth with his own to the point that it feels like you’re one being. His hands anchor at your hips and without thinking, he starts moving your hips over him again. You move in tandem with him, chasing exactly what you’ve been craving for weeks.
He slides his palms from where they rest at your hips and down to your thighs, all the way until they reach the end of your skirt. He slowly rubs the skin of your thighs and for the first time, Steve finally lets his hands wander below your skirt, carefully trailing up your bare skin until the tips of his fingers reach the trim of your panties.
Your breath hitches at his careful touching but you do your best to keep the same pace of your mouth against his. He slips his tongue past your lips, easily licking into your mouth – at the same time the pads of his fingers rub soft and slow circles into your clit over the lace.
You whine into his mouth, very clearly wound up tight already. Your own hand drop down to his jeans and try to tug his zipper down but his free hand holds your wrist still. He stops kissing you for a moment, but his fingers continue rubbing your clit.
“Wait,” He whispers gently. His mouth still touches yours as you breathe into each others mouths. “Let me do this first, yeah? Promise I’ll give it to you, just be patient.”
You’re putty in his hands.
Your heart slams against your ribs as you nod. You let your hands steer from his jeans and instead, you splay your palms across his abdomen. You can feel his stomach tightening beneath your touch and you crave the feeling of his skin against yours.
His presses his thumb harder against you, just barely but enough to have you cry out. Your fingers curl into his shirt, fisting the fabric as his fingers work you over. Your forehead drops to his shoulder.
“Good girl, baby. Such a good girl f’me,”
You whine at his words, nodding into his shoulder. He chuckles at your reaction and is quick to take note of how much you like his praise.
He’s even more sure of himself when his fingers curl around the edge of your panties and tugs them to the side. Your breathing is erratic against his neck, warm and uncontrollable on his skin, and he brings his mouth down to your throat.
His teeth sink into your pulse point at the exact same time he sinks his middle finger inside your cunt.
You cry out immediately, loud and unapologetic, and bury yourself further into his neck. Your hands slip beneath his shirt, finally feeling his warmth against your palms. Your nails dig into his skin as his finger begins to plunge in and out of you.
Your wetness quickly begins to soak not just his finger but his entire hand, slowly pooling in the cup of his palm. He gently shushes you, curling his finger perfectly until he nudges that perfect spot.
“Fuck, you feel so good.” He breathes. Your hips begin to rock against his fingers and the obscene sounds of your weeping cunt fill the room.
“Oh Steve!” Your voice is a blubbering whine and it sounds like music to his ears. He hums against your skin and carefully slides another finger in. “SteveSteveSteve,”
His fingers crook inside of you, gently brushing that spongey spot that has you seeing stars already. His fingers move at a tortuous and satisfying pace all at once.
“So wet for me, baby. God, I can’t wait to feel you around my cock.” He groans. Your eyes roll back into your head and you can both feel the way your walls flutter around him.
He doesn’t have to ask to know you’re close. He quickens his pace, plunging his fingers deeper inside you and curling them just right to bring you closer to the edge.
“Oh my – fuck! Right there, right there.” You cry out. Your thighs shake around his hips and you’re so, so close to falling over.
Steve uses his free hand to tangle into your hair and gently pull you from your hiding place in his neck. Your eyes are squeezed shut, specks of both wet and dried mascara staining the skin under your eyes. Your mouth hangs open and just before your body locks up, Steve slides in a third finger – easily pumping all three fingers in and out.
Your orgasm crashes into you. One second you’re riding Steve’s fingers and the next, you’re on an entirely different planet. You can barely hear the faint sound of Steve’s voice murmuring into your ear as his fingers slow down but move enough to prolong your pleasure.
The only thing you can register is him. His fingers, his mouth, his voice. It’s what slowly draws you back to reality, light headed and bleary eyed. You can feel his mouth gently glide across your skin, leaving a trail of kisses.
Steve watched your eyes blink back to normalcy at him, he can feel soft trembles in your limbs over him. He gives you a sweet smile and plants a peck to your mouth.
“Did s’good for me, baby. I’m so proud of you,” He whispers. You shiver in his arms as your breathing slowly returns normal. The smile on your face is wide and Steve has no choice but to mirror it.
You press your mouth firmly against his, easily taking control. Your tongue licks into his mouth this time and Steve has to stop himself from regaining control. He lets you lead the kiss and when your hands tug at the hem of his shirt, he easily discards it.
Steve strips your shirt next, and then helps you slide the skirt down your hips, until you’re left in your matching red set. He groans at the stark color against your skin.
Minx.
But as much as he loves it, he’d rather see it on the floor. He quickly slips his hands behind your back and unhooks your bra. He throws it across the room and uses one hand to palm at your breasts, using the other to tug your panties all the way down your legs, doing the same with them.
You moan against his mouth, your own hands trailing over the expanse of his bare stomach and chest. His skin burns beneath your palms, his muscles contracting under every brush of your hands.
This time when your hands find his jeans, he doesn’t stop you, but he does whisper, “Are you sure, baby?”
You let your hands continue to tug at his jeans, pushing them down past his thighs for him to kick away himself. You press your mouth harder against his, swallowing every moan of his. “I’m sure, Stevie.”
Steve doesn’t dwell on his own worries any longer. His own hands move to help yours in pushing his pants away until they’re around his ankles. He kicks them to the pile of forgotten clothing and lets you wander your hands to his boxers.
Tentatively, like you’re waiting for him to change his mind, you rub your palm over his covered length. He throws his head back at the first real kind of contact you’ve made with his cock so far and he uses all his willpower not to finish right then and there.
You smile at his reaction, a smug one, and continue to slowly rub him over the fabric. You can’t help yourself from already tugging the garment down and letting his cock spring free.
It slaps against his bare stomach and the first thing Steve registers when he looks at you is the wide eyed look on your face. It’s not fear or surprise, but something resembling awe.
He can see it in your eyes – how you’re thinking he was definitely right before. Steve is big, definitely bigger than anyone you’ve been with before, and it makes your mouth water. He’s thick and long, his pink tip leaking with precum that’s just begging you to taste.
For a second, his insecurities creep back in and as if there’s an alarm in your head, your eyes snap to his. You look at his lust blown eyes, flushed cheeks and parted lips. You hold his gaze with your own as your small hand closes around his cock, gently stroking him.
He moans aloud, hips already thrusting up into your palm. It’s painfully obvious he’s wanted this just as much as you. Your hand continues to work him over slowly, your wrist twisting and rising over his length.
His thighs tighten beneath you, his chest heaving with uneven breaths as he tries not to finish early. Your mourn lowers to the column of his throat, sucking over his pulse as your hand continues its movements.
“Fuck just like that, baby. Keep – keep doing it like that.” He pants. You obey of course. You leave a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses across his skin and even suck a mark into his skin.
Without Steve even noticing, you raise your hips and carefully guide his cock to your cunt. He doesn’t realize until he feels your soaked pussy siding against the tip of his cock.
His eyes shoot open, his hands gripping your hips tight – but he doesn’t stop you. His breathing stutters and his eyes flicker from your face and down to where you begin to connect.
“Baby –,” He gasps as you slide his cock through your folds. “Wait, go – go slow. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
His words are so sweet, so considerate, but you roll your eyes anyway.
You keep your hand wrapped around his length as your hips still over him. He can feel the tip of his cock just barely slip towards your entrance.
Your eyes lock with his and you use your free hand to hold his cheek. You wait until his eyes leave your pussy and find your own. That’s when you speak.
“Stop worrying so much, Stevie.”
And with that, you sink onto his cock.
“Oh fuck!” He whines out, his fingers digging harshly into the skin of your hips. Your cry is nearly identical as you slide down. You can feel every rigid and vein of his cock against your velvet walls and almost immediately, you’re pulsing around him.
The stretch is undeniable and intense but so good. It felt like being split open in the best way possible. Your eyes flicker down to where he disappears inside you and that’s when you realize he’s barely halfway in.
You moan at the sight. Your slick slides down his cock, soaking the base of him. It’s a sticky and lewd mess already.
Steve’s hips slowly rock upwards, his hands on your hips keep you in place. His own gaze locks onto where you connect and when you take a second to breathe, he thinks this is how much you’ll be able to take.
He’s not upset about it, not even for a second.
“You’re so good, baby. The fuckin’ best I’ve ever had, mhm.” He gasps out. You look down at him and the completely fucked out expression on his face, and you crave more.
You ignore the tremble in your thighs and sink down further. His beautiful brown eyes widen, his mouth hanging open as he watches your cunt swallow three more inches – almost all of him.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” He moans. “Don’t push yourself baby, it’s okay.” You ignore him, only responding with your own lewd moan as you finally sink down on him completely. Steve can’t hold himself back anymore, he sits up and wraps his arms around your body and thrusts his hips upwards.
Your hips meet his pace, dropping down into his lap with every thrust. The tip of his cock hits your cervix every time and your pussy weeps around him. The sound of wet skin smacking, mixed with his and your moans, fills the room.
The feeling of your cunt squeezing and clenching around him has his head swimming. He can’t believe he’s been depriving himself of this.
“Fuck Steve, you’re so – you’re so big.” You whine and Steve slams you down harder onto his length. Your thighs burn with every drop but you hardly feel it with the way his cock splits you open.
“Jesus Christ,” He moans. “You’re so perfect, baby. Like you were made for me. You were, huh? Made just for me,”
You nod feverishly against him, because you were. Just as he was made for you.
Your arms tighten around his neck. Your cunt flutters around him and when he pulls his head back to look down at where you’re joined, he’s awestruck at the unmistakable white ring around his cock you’ve caused.
“Fuck look at you, taking all of it like a good girl. The only one who can take it, right? Only one who can take it so good.”
You body shakes around him, but the confirmation that nobody could ever take him the way you could has you slamming down harder.
“Just me, baby. Only me.” You whimper. He groans, teeth sinking into the skin of your shoulder. He brings his thumb down to your clit, rubbing tight and fast circles against your swollen bud.
It builds fast and intense. You know he’s just as close as his breathing hitches, hips stuttering as he thrusts up into you.
“Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you soak me like a good girl.”
Your second orgasm hits you like a freight train. It’s blinding and all consuming. Your mouth drops open in a silent scream, your thighs convulsing around his hips. Your cunt clamps around his cock, pulsing hot and wet until you feel Steve’s thrusts falter and in seconds, his own cum is filling you from the inside out.
You’re finally able to suck in a breath as you come down from your high. Steve holds you tight to his chest, his sweaty skin sticking to your own. Your arms wrap tight around his shoulders as you feel his cock twitch inside you.
You’re both boneless and exhausted when he finally comes back down to reality too. He pulls his head back to look at your face.
Your makeup is a runny and smudged mess, your hair is tangled and frizzy, and your cheeks are flushed red but you’ve never looked more beautiful to him.
He covers your mouth with his own in a slow and deep kiss. There’s to rush or really any rhythm to it – just the desire to feel your mouth against his. When you pull away, he leans his forehead against your own. Your eyes blink tiredly but there’s a dopey smile on your face.
“Told you I could take it,” You whisper.
Steve rolls his eyes and snakes his arm around your waist, holding you tight as he flops backwards so his back hits the mattress. Your body bounces on top of him and the movement has his cock stirring inside you again.
He uses his free hand to push a strand of hair out of your face. “Prove it.”
