i wish i could hug a cow

The ad had a cheerful, slightly crooked quality to it, like whoever made it had done it themselves on a budget. You liked that. You called.

It rang twice.

“Harrington Handyman, this is Steve.”

You opened your mouth and closed it again.

The voice was - well. It was a whole lot of voice. Low and easy, the kind that came with its own weight, like he had all the time in the world and was choosing to spend it on you. A little rough at the edges in a way that suggested it was probably even better first thing in the morning.

You swallowed, hard.

“Hello?” he said, and somehow that was worse.

“Hi,” you managed. “I have a - I need a - my faucet is dripping.”

You heard, rather than saw, the widening of Max’s eyes.

“Okay,” he said. Just that. Just okay, warm and understanding like you’d told him something genuinely interesting. “How long’s it been going?”

“Two days.”

A low whistle, almost sympathetic. “Yeah, that’ll drive you crazy. What’s the manufacturer, do you know? On the fixture.”

“I… no. It’s, um. Chrome. And round. Think it’s the original install.”

There was a pause that somehow did not feel like judgment. “That’s alright, I’ll figure it out when I get there. Are you in Hawkins?”

“Yes. On Maple. Number forty-two.”

“Perfect. I’ve got a job this morning but I can be there by two, two-thirty? Does that work?”

Two-thirty. You looked at your bathroom door. Forty-eight hours of dripping and the prospect of a couple more suddenly felt very manageable.

“That works,” you smiled. “That works great.”

“Great,” he said, and you could have sworn there was a smile in it. “See you then.”

He hung up.

You stood in your hallway holding the phone for probably fifteen seconds longer than was strictly necessary.

“Why didn’t you warn me about the voice?” You left the phone on the wall and stood in the living room doorway.

”What voice?” Max blinked up at you from the magazine she was busy pretending to read.

“Max. Come on.”

She bit her lip, trying and failing to hide the grin that threatened to explode across her face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Maxine.”

“He’s just a person. With a voice. Like most people.”

“It’s not a normal voice and you know it. I genuinely wasn’t sure if I’d called the right number.”

“What other number would you have… oh my god, did you think you’d called a sex line?!”

“I didn’t think anything. I just. It was unexpected. He sounds like…” You stopped, because there was no good way to finish that sentence that didn’t commit you to something embarrassing. “He sounds like a voice.”

“God, it’s just Steve. Jesus.”

“Steve the handyman. Coming to service my faucet.”

“Uh huh. That’s what we’re calling it.” Max was quiet for a moment. You could hear her trying not to laugh. “What time is he coming over?”

“Two-thirty.”

“Cool. I’ll wait.”

“You will not.”

She planted herself on your couch with no intention to move, and you knew you were stuck with her until Steve the handyman’s arrival.

****************

She was still on your couch with another magazine and a look of elaborate innocence by the time the knock came at the door. You pointed at her and told her to stay quiet. She mimed locking her mouth and winked over the top of the magazine.

You opened the door.

And.

Well.

The voice, it turned out, had come attached to a person who had clearly been assembled with more than his fair share of the best parts in the man factory. He was tall, broad shouldered, and toned without being overly muscular. He was holding a red toolbox in one hand and had the other tucked in the pocket of his too-tight jeans, and he was looking at you with dark hazel eyes and a slight squint like the afternoon sun was in them. He had the kind of hair that looked like it had started the day with some intention and then given up, and he was - he was just standing there on your door step, like this was a normal thing, like people looked like this while holding toolboxes in Hawkins, Indiana on a random Thursday afternoon.

“Hey,” he said. The voice, in person. “You called about a dripping faucet?”

Behind you, you heard the extremely unsubtle sound of Max laughing into a cushion.

“Yes, yeah, hi,” you said, more flustered than you’d like. “Come in.”

He came in. He saw Max and his whole face shifted into something warmer and more familiar. “Mayfield. What are you doing here?”

“Moral support,” she grinned back at him.

“For the faucet?”

“No. Her.”

He looked at you, then back at Max, visibly uncertain whether he’d missed something. “Okay,” he said, and accepted this, and looked at you again. “Bathroom?”

“Down the hall,” you said.

He followed you. Max did not follow, but you felt her watching, and you knew for certain that she was grinning.

****************

He crouched in front of the sink, set his toolbox down, and got to work with the immediate, focused competence of someone who had done this several hundred times. His hands were big, but they worked delicately. He turned the faucet, listened to it, turned it back.

“Washer,” he said over his shoulder. “Easy fix.” He glanced up at you. “Ten minutes, maybe.”

You were leaning against the doorframe. You were doing this casually, you felt, with a completely normal amount of leaning. “Great.”

He opened the toolbox and started raking through the insides. “Have you lived here long? On Maple?”

You were staring at his hands as they searched through the tools. “Almost two years.”

“Maple’s a nice street.” He found what he was looking for, and turned back to the sink. “I grew up a few blocks over. Loch Nora.”

“Oh.” You knew leafy Loch Nora. Everyone did, at least by reputation; big houses set back from the road, the kind with circular driveways and sprinkler systems on timers. “Real nice over there.”

“Eh, it was alright.” He said it without weight, just factual, like he’d made his peace with it some time ago. He’d unscrewed something and was peering into the fixture now, and you watched his hands work without meaning to. They were careful hands, despite their size. He had a small scar across the back of his right one that you found yourself wondering about before you caught yourself doing it.

“Do you work in town?”

“Yeah, at the library. I used to commute in from Hartford City, before I found this place.”

He looked up at that. Not the quick, polite glance he’d been giving you, but an actual look, like you’d said something that caught him off guard in a way he didn’t mind. “No kidding. You’ve been in the library this whole time.”

“Yeah, for a little while now. Good way to get to know a town.” You leaned a little further into the doorframe, and shifted your weight. “I haven’t seen you in there, though.”

He made a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and an acknowledgment, then turned back to the sink. “I’ve been working through the same novel since nineteen ninety-one.”

“From the library?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Technically…”

You did the math. “Two years of late fees. That’s going to be… wow.”

“Oh, for sure, probably why I haven’t brought it back in.” He didn’t sound especially worried about it. He was doing something to the fixture with a focus that should not have been as interesting to watch as it was.

“Put in a good word for me?” he said, after a moment. He glanced back at you over his shoulder, and there was something in it - not quite a smile, just the suggestion of one, easy and familiar the same way everything about him seemed to be.

You considered the faucet. The two days. The dripping.

“Get that thing to stop,” you said, “and I’ll wipe your record completely.”

The suggestion of a smile became an actual one. He turned back to the sink.

“Deal,” he said, and went back to work.

It was unfair, you thought, watching his hands move. It was genuinely unfair that he could just… exist, like this. Crouched on your bathroom floor fixing a faucet and making easy conversation and looking like that, apparently completely unaware of any of it. Just a man with a set of skills doing a job. It was making you feel slightly insane.

He replaced the washer. He reassembled the faucet. He turned the water back on, watched it run, and watched it not drip once he’d turned it off again.

“There you go,” he said, and stood up, and he was tall and perfect-haired again, right there in your small bathroom, and he was close enough that you got the full effect of him - warm and solid and smelling faintly like sawdust and something else underneath that, something that had no business being in a handyman context.

It made your mouth water.

“Thank you,” you said. You sounded normal. You were fairly sure you sounded normal.

“No problem.” He picked up the toolbox. “Should hold fine now. If it starts again within the month, call me back and I won’t charge you.”

“That’s a good policy.”

“I’ve had it come back and bite me before.” He said it ruefully, the ghost of some earlier, more harried version of himself in the words. “Better to just -” He shrugged. “Do it right.”

****************

He followed you back down the hall. Max was still on the couch, concentrating hard on the magazine and definitely not watching the two of you at all.

At the door, you paid him - cash, he’d said on the phone, or check - and he folded the bills into his back pocket with the ease of someone who did this every day.

“Thanks for calling,” he smiled at you from the door step.

“Thanks for coming,” you said.

He was already half-turned when something made him stop. He looked back at you, and there was something different in it now, something that hadn’t quite been there before, or had been there and you’d misread it.

“You free on Saturday?” he asked, squinting into the sun again.

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“There’s a diner on the road near Marion that just opened. It’s supposed to be good.” He said it steadily, like he’d been thinking about it for slightly longer than the last five seconds. “I figured I’d ask, maybe you’d want to come?”

Behind you, noisily, Max turned a page.

You looked at Steve Harrington, standing in your doorway with his toolbox and his voice and his complete, total obliviousness to the minor lust-fuelled crisis he’d caused in your bathroom for the last twenty minutes.

“Y-yeah,” you croaked through your suddenly dry throat. “I’m free. On Saturday.”

The smile came back, different this time, a little less easy. More like it meant something.

“Great. I’ll call you,” he said.

“You’ve got my number?”

“Caller ID on the business line. It helps.”

“It helps with business, or with dates?”

His grin was infectious. “Both, now.”

He went down the path to his truck, and waved once he got there. You closed the door before you could say anything else.

“You knew,” you said, a finger pointed in Max’s direction.

She was lazing sideways on your couch with her legs over the armrest, the picture of someone who had absolutely nothing to hide. The grin she was failing to suppress suggested otherwise. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The voice, Max. You knew about the voice. You knew how I’d… react.”

“God, he’s just Steve.”

“Max -”

“He literally is. That’s the whole thing about him. He’s just Steve.” She said it like this settled the matter, like just Steve was a reasonable descriptor for whatever had just happened in your house that afternoon.

You stared at her. She inspected her thumbnail.

“How have you two never met, actually?” she said, after a moment, tilting her head. “You’ve been in Hawkins for two years? He grew up here. How is that even possible? How can you live in Hawkins and not know Steve? It makes no sense.”

“I don’t know, it just -”

“Are you sure? You’re absolutely sure you never crossed paths, not even once?”

“Believe me, I’d remember if I’d seen that ass before.”

Max pointed at you. “Don’t be gross. He’s like my pseudo big brother or something.”

“I’m not being gross, I’m being honest.”

“There’s overlap.” She swung her legs off the couch and sat up properly, and now she was grinning properly too, not even trying to hide it anymore. “So. Saturday. You have a date.”

You put your face in your hands.

****************

On Saturday morning, he called you at ten.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s Steve.”

“I know,” you said, which was true and also slightly more than you’d meant to give away. “Hi, Steve.”

The silence stretched, just a little. Not awkward. Just enough to mean something.

When he spoke again the smile was back in his voice, and this time you knew exactly what it looked like. “Can I pick you up at seven?”

You had been standing in your kitchen in your pyjamas eating toast. You were now somehow very aware of that fact, like he could see you through the phone line, like the voice alone was enough to make you feel slightly caught out.

“Seven works,” you said, voice squeaking slightly.

“Good - great, I mean. See you tonight.”

“See you tonight.”

The line clicked. You stood there a moment with the handset against your collarbone, looking at nothing in particular, and thought about the fact that you had eight hours to do something about your hair.

Then you called Max.

****************

The diner on Route 15 was small and warm and smelled like coffee and pie. Steve held the door. He asked what you liked to eat and really listened when you told him. He told you about the job he’d gone to after yours on Thursday - a furnace situation on the east side that turned out to be something much simpler than anyone expected - and he told it with a dry, almost self-deprecating sense of humour that made you laugh twice before the food even came.

He was, you realised - somewhere between the cheese sticks you’d shared and the burgers the waitress had brought out after - surprisingly easy to be with. The voice made more sense in person, made sense as part of someone who’d learned not to rush things, who’d maybe had a chapter or two before this one that had taught him the value of slowing down. There were edges to him you could sense without being able to see, things you didn’t know yet. None of them made you want to pull back.

He walked you to your door a little before eleven.

He stood close, closer than strictly necessary, and he was looking at you the way he’d looked at the faucet - careful and attentive, like he’d figured something out and was deciding what to do with the information.

“You good?” he asked. You caught the way the tip of his tongue flicked over his bottom lip.

“Very,” you answered.

He kissed you, and it was nothing like the easy, laid back manner he’d had all evening - or maybe it was exactly that, just turned toward something different. His hand found the side of your face, tilted it up, and he took his time with it the way he seemed to take his time with everything, slow and thorough, like he was fixing something and wanted to do it right.

And, did he ever kiss you right.

When he finally pulled back you were holding the lapels of his denim jacket without entirely remembering deciding to do that.

“D’you want to come in?” you asked.

He looked at you for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

****************

He was, it turned out, exactly as competent at everything else as he was at fixing faucets.

He took his time with the jackets first, yours and then his, like there was no reason to rush any of it, like the night was long and he’d already decided how he wanted to spend it. It should have felt presumptuous, but with him it didn’t. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, the way everything with him seemed to.

His hands were the same as they’d been in the bathroom - certain, delicate - except now they were at your waist, your shoulders, the small of your back, exploring over your clothes with a quiet, focused attention that made your brain go briefly and completely blank.

“You’re staring,” he grinned, before leaning in to press his mouth to your collarbone.

“You’re right here, looking like…” you tried, gesturing over his body with your hands. “What else am I supposed to do?”

That earned you the smile. Not the easy one, not the professional one. The other one, the one that had appeared at your doorstep when you’d said yes to Saturday, except closer now and considerably more dangerous at this range.

He kissed your lips again, slower this time, one hand cradling the back of your head, fingers lost in your hair, and you stopped being clever about anything for a while after that.

You led him upstairs to your bedroom, and he was thorough about it. About all of it. You divested him of his clothes and guided him to lay back on your bed and he settled himself in the middle like he’d been there before. You undressed for him, took your time with it, slipped the light cotton dress you’d agonised over at your wardrobe that afternoon off your shoulders and down until it fell, pooling at your feet. He watched your every move, lower lip caught between his teeth when your bra joined your dress on the floor and your hands cupped your breasts, pressing them together, pinching your nipples between your fingers.

You watched him palm himself through his boxers as your thumbs hooked into the elastic of your underwear, pushing the scrap of lace over your hips and down to your thighs before it fell to your feet.

“Jesus, honey…”, he almost whined as you crawled up his legs, settling on his thighs and resting your hand over his, squeezing around his fingers to feel the thick ridge of his cock hidden beneath the blue cotton boxers.

“Patience,” you murmured, stroking your hand over him, pressing your fingertips into the damp spot forming.

He looked up at you through his lashes. “Easy for you to say.”

You smiled at him, and watched something shift in his expression - that careful attentiveness tipping into something with considerably more heat behind it. His hands found your hips, steadying, not pushing, just holding you there like you were something worth keeping still for a moment.

You leaned down and kissed him, and he made a low groan against your mouth that you felt in your core.

He rolled you over with an easy certainty, got an arm under you, settled his weight and then just… looked at you. Taking his time about it. You were beginning to think it was the thing he was best at, this easygoing quality, this absolute refusal to be rushed, and under the circumstances it was making you feel slightly desperate.

“Steve,” you whispered, pawing at his chest, drawing one leg up beside him.

“Yeah,” he said, like he already knew.

He hooked a hand under your knee and pulled it higher, opening you to him, and ground himself against you. Even through the fabric of his boxers you could feel the heat of him, the thick press of him that left you gasping.

“What do you need? C’mon, you can tell me…”. He drew back, just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your thigh.

You slid a hand between your bodies, your fingertips brushing the elastic at his waist. “I need these to go.”

He grinned down at you, and shook his head gently. “What was it you said… ‘patience’, right?”

“That was… that was different,” you said.

“Was it?” He pressed his mouth to your jaw, your throat, and down, slow and teasing, like he had all the time in the world and your lack of patience was not his problem. You felt him smile against your skin. “Seems pretty similar from where I’m standing.”

“You’re not standing.”

“Figure of speech.”

You made a sound that was not entirely dignified. His mouth had found your nipple and was doing something that made it very difficult to form a counterargument. He sucked it into hardness, brushed his lips over the peak, and laved his tongue against it, peppering kisses around the swell of your breast before returning to suck and kiss at your nipple.

“Steve…”

“Mm?”

“I will never call you for a plumbing emergency again.”

He pulled back from your breast, reluctantly, and laughed. Then he pushed himself up on one hand and looked down at you, and the laugh faded into something quieter. He brushed your hair back from your face with his free hand, just once, just gently, and the tenderness of it caught you off guard after everything else.

“Yeah, you will.”

He kissed you once more, soft, and then he sat back on his heels and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and took care of that particular problem, holding your gaze while he did it like he wanted to see your face. You swallowed.

He was - well. The voice had been a reasonable preview of the rest of him, as it turned out. All of him, long and deliciously thick, the head flushed a rosy pink, the slit glistening already.

He settled back over you, relaxed as ever, and whatever clever thing you’d been about to say next went completely out of your head.

He took his time, even then, adjusting your legs until you were spread open beneath him and he looked, his gaze lingering like he was drinking in the sight of you. His fingertips grazed over your inner thigh, teasing until he pressed the flat of his hand against your pussy. He held it there for a moment, feeling the warmth of you, before his thumb moved through your folds, gathering your arousal from your hole then moving up to circle it around your clit before he brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked it clean.

He shut his eyes and moaned.

“Okay… okay, gonna need a little more…”, was the only warning you got before he moved, arms slipping under your thighs and his face diving into your cunt. He lapped at you, dragging the tip of his tongue through your folds just like he’d done with his thumb, flicking over and over your clit until you gasped and arched against him. He pulled you tighter to him, his hands at your hips, one reaching around to press against your stomach, holding you in place. He flattened his tongue and dragged it over you, lapping up your slick arousal before it had a chance to leave your body, moaning into you as you bucked against his face. He took your lips between his, sucking on each one gently, before his tongue delved inside for more. His thumb returned, circling and pressing and flicking, finding the rhythm that made you press yourself into him.

He took his time, and then some.

”Steve… Steve…”, you keened, your climax rushing and rapid, ready to consume you.

He lifted his glistening face and replaced his tongue with two fingers, then three, plunging and pressing into you, the noise slick and sloppy while his thumb teased the hood of your clit, drawing it back before he quickened his thumb over it, making you cry out.

You were close, right on the edge, clenching around his fingers as he pressed deep inside.

“Come on, beautiful, you’re so close I can feel it…”. He lifted his gaze from his working hands to your flushed face and flashed a bright, enraptured smile. “Wanna feel you.”

That was all you needed. You felt every muscle contract and release as your pleasure crested, your head tipped back into the pillows while Steve worked you through your orgasm. You caught the tone of his voice, but not the words he was saying, just the sound of him enough to leave you reeling. You clenched your legs around his hands as you came down, holding him in place but effectively ceasing his movements, the overstimulation of it almost too much to bear. Slowly, he leaned back and withdrew his hands from you, and once again licked his fingers clean.

“God, you’re too much…”, you whispered, wrecked, reaching for him.

“Need me to stop? We can stop.” He looked so serious suddenly, even as you pulled on his wrist to draw him down to you.

You shook your head, and laced your fingers with his. “Don’t you dare.”

You reached over to your nightstand, pulling open the drawer, and grasped until you found one of the small foil packets from the box you’d bought on a whim the month before. You were careful, opening it slowly, pinching the tip and rolling it onto him, letting him adjust the condom until it was comfortable. He kissed you again, warm and eager, bracing himself on his forearm as he held himself against you.

“C’mon, Steve. I’m done being patient,” you whispered.

A smile illuminated his face. “God, I’m so glad you said that.”

The patience and restraint he’d demonstrated all evening fell away in a flash. He surged forward, pressing himself into you until his hips were flush with yours, until there was no further he could go. It burned, bright and hot and delicious, and you both sighed as your bodies adjusted to each other. He held himself in place for a moment, giving you the grace to adjust to his more than sizable intrusion, before he drew his cock back again. He snapped his hips forward, again, and back, again, finding a brisk deep rhythm that left you clinging to his broad shoulders.

He was everywhere.

Inside you, above you, his breath against your skin and beads of sweat falling from his brow to yours. He sighed your name as you tightened your legs around his waist and tilted your hips, dragged your nails down the muscular expanse of his back. He kept moving until a whim took him and he rolled onto his back, taking you with him, stretching his body out below you as you rode him, more than matching the pace he’d set. His thumb found your sensitive clit again and you gasped out his name, his other hand reaching up to tease a nipple.

“Gonna come for me again, huh?” he grunted, brow furrowing as he snapped his hips up to meet yours.

You nodded, it was all you could do, your heartbeat thundering in your chest, your throat tight, the pleasure overwhelming you.

“Wanna… wanna feel you, Steve, wanna feel you come too…”

He hissed out a jesus, fuck as you rolled your hips against him and arched your back. You lifted yourself up and he grasped your hips, holding you in place as he looked down at you, the tip of his cock still inside. “Christ, you’re making a mess of me, I love it…”.

You chanced a glance down and caught the ring of white at the base of his cock, soaking into the thick thatch of hair there, and you whimpered, more turned on than you’d ever felt. He pulled you back down onto him and rolled you both onto your sides and the change in angle, in depth, in pace, made the breath catch in your throat. He hoisted your leg high against his side, his weight resting on his forearm as he leaned up, guiding himself deeper and deeper into you, slower now. He rocked into you over and over, barely pulling out, then rolled you onto your back again.

“I’m… m’not gonna last long”, he sighed, forehead against yours.

“That’s okay… that’s okay, wanna feel you…”

“Yeah?”

You nodded against him, and hummed in approval as you caught his lips with yours.

He settled down on his forearms, his hands at your face, thumbs grazing over your cheekbones as he quickened his pace again. He was relentless, snapping his hips hard and fast, your headboard hitting the wall with each rough thrust in. Your second orgasm snuck up on you in a sudden explosion, colours bursting behind your eyes as you squeezed them shut, gasping and arching up into him as wave upon wave of pleasure tore through you. You turned your head, just enough to kiss his wrist, and his thumb hooked in between your lips. You sucked, nipping your teeth against him, and that was enough to send him over the edge. He cried out your name with a rough, ragged moan, pushing his hips as hard as he could into yours, his whole body pulled tight as his cock twitched and pulsed inside you, spilling his release into the condom.

“Fuck… fuck… holy…”. The words spilled from his lips, the breath held in his chest, and only with his eventual exhale did he relax against you. He adjusted himself enough to lay his head on your chest, and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him in place. His scattered kisses over your breasts, teasing each nipple in turn until you squirmed beneath him, giggling at the sensation.

He said your name once, later, low and a little rough, like something he’d been holding onto since before he’d had reason to. You felt it more than heard it. Thought, somewhere in the back of your mind that was still capable of thought, that you owed Max a very serious apology for every time you’d rolled your eyes when she’d called him just Steve.

There was nothing just about any of this.

“Hey,” he murmured, eventually, lifting his heavy head enough to meet your eyes.

“Hey,” you said, offering him a shy smile.

His hand found yours, and held on, like there was nowhere else it needed to be.

“Can I ask you something?” you whispered, stroking your thumb over the back of his hand, following the scar you’d spotted on Thursday.

“Mm.”

“How long have you known Max?”

“Since high school. Why?”

“Did she call you before I did?”

He grinned, and dropped his forehead to your chest.

“She might have mentioned someone on Maple had a dripping faucet,” he said, carefully.

You lifted your head and looked down at him, tugging his hair until he looked up at you. He had the expression of a man who had just realised he’d said slightly more than he intended to.

“She set us up,” you stated, plainly.

“She… I mean, she said you might need help with something. I was in the area.” He seemed to be choosing his words. “I didn’t know it was going to - I wasn’t expecting anything like this. This isn’t what we do, just to be clear. I don’t ask her to scout out potential… dates, for me.” He looked at you, and the careful expression gave way to something more honest. “You opened the door and I thought, okay, Max was right.”

“Right about what?”

He smiled, slow and a little rueful. “That I should ask you out.”

You looked at him for a long moment. Then you let go of his hair, and wrapped your arms around his shoulders again, and held him close.

Downstairs, the faucet was silent. Fixed right, just like he’d promised. You watched him get up to dispose of the condom, then he came back to bed, and his head found your chest once more.

“Is this okay?”, he half-whispered, voice suddenly heavy with fatigue.

“This is very okay, Steve.” You scratched your nails against his scalp and felt him press into your touch in response.

You were going to have to do something very nice for Max. Or possibly something very annoying, depending on how you decided to play it.

Two years. It's been two years since you found yourself scurrying home half-dressed, and red in the face as you stumble past Samantha in the hotel lobby. Two years and three months since you avoided her confused-ridden gaze, pondering what you were doing at the same hotel as her and Rex. Two years, three months, and eight days, to be exact, since you last saw the actor.

You'd blocked him immediately after, turned off the TV whenever Invincible came on, and outright avoided everything about him. The article you were supposed to write on the premiere never even saw its first word. You swore to never speak to, nor of Rex Sloan ever again.

So, as to why you're sitting in front of him, enjoying a nice steak at a fancy restaurant? You could never really find the answer to.

He thought himself a hot lucky bastard, and it didn’t take much time for him to make it painfully obvious.

You sat cross legged across the actor in a quiet, fancy steakhouse. The best in your city. The redhead babbled on and on about his work, how the latest season was coming out, and all the interviews and fan mail he’s been getting. None of it was really registering, you couldn't give a shit.

“You loved me in it, didn't ‘ya?” his grating timbre cut through your busy mind as you fiddled with your glass of wine. “Excuse me?” your brows furrowed and raised. Rex's cocky smirk melts away momentarily from your reaction, forming right back as he scoffs and starts slicing through his steak.

“Don't act like you didn't,” he brings the fork to his mouth. “I mean, you wouldn't be here if you didn't still want me” He winks.

He fucking winks.

Your wine glass slams onto the table, the impact wipes the smugness off his face. “What the fuck do you take me for, Sloan?” you’re grabbing your purse. He immediately drops his fork, “Oh, no! No, no–I didn’t mean it like that, I–” You cut him off “Absolutely not, we are not doing this.”

The chair makes a loud squeak as you push against the table. “Don’t ever fucking talk to me again!” you grab your coat, and storm off. Heels clicked and thumped with every step you took away from the redhead.

Rex tried to chase after you, but stopped himself when you slammed the door behind you. He stood there, in the middle of a nice restaurant–where people probably knew him by name–embarrassed and dumbfounded. Running away crossed his mind, but that would only ruin his reputation further. What the press would say in the morning already terrifies him enough.

Instead, he pays in cash with a 70% tip, asking the waiter to not mention the situation to anyone. Before leaving, Rex notices a ring you had left behind in your hurry. Without much thought, he slips it in his pocket before going.

Rex’s walk back home was cold. The air was too chilly for comfort, biting at the tanned actor’s skin. He presses his hands into his denim pockets hoping to get some warmth. The sharp edges of your ring’s gemstone brushes against his fingers, the sensation reminding him of you. You and ‘your sharp edges’, he thought.

The thought brings him warmth.

That night, the actor laid in bed, analyzing your ring in between his index and thumb. He tutted, pondering whether or not to try and message you again to give it back. You’ve probably already blocked him. With an exasperated sigh, he rolls around on his chest and buries his head in his pillow. The look on your face replays in his head, over and over again.

“Sloan, you piece of shit…” he mutters to himself, words muffled in his pillow. You looked so disappointed in him, so angry. He hated it and what it said about him; how true your anger was, how warranted it is.

More of a reason to return the ring.

Rex sobs himself to sleep, thinking 'nothing I do is ever good'.

“Oh, so you’re a thief now too?” your arms are crossed, and your face is in a scowl. Rex’s face immediately dropped, grimacing.

 That following week, you met with Rex again. After him persistently insisting on a better second date, you caved in and said yes. You figured you could squeeze out another free meal out of the man.

He stood patiently outside of what used to be the small apartment you two shared, holding an extravagant arrangement of your favorite flowers. The redhead was well dressed, hair pulled back into a neat bun, and held the bouquet out to you as soon as you came out. “I’m sorry for last time” he seemed earnest, at least. 

It was a sight for sore eyes, ‘does he really think he can convince me to sleep with him with just flowers?’ You rolled your eyes and reluctantly accepted the over-the-top floral gift.

This time, your date was a hearty lunch at a local Mediterranean cafe, just a short walk away. In their alfresco seating, you and your redhead date ate under a light blue parasol. For the most part, it was silent after ordering and until the meals had been served.

You were playing around the plated salad when he finally started “‘Been up to anything lately?” Avoiding his gaze, you ponder whether or not the date was a mistake to begin with, “What’s it to you, Sloan?”

“Can’t I ask my pretty date what she’s been up to?” you look up to see a soft smile plastered on the actor’s face. It catches you off guard, he’s never been too interested in your life. It makes you wonder what his true motives are.

“Pretty?” the remark makes you sneer, “If this is your sad attempt at getting me in your bed, it is not happening.” The actor groans ‘oh my god’, letting his head fall back as he drags his palm down his face. “Please stop being a bitch and just tell me about your day”

 “What did you just call me?”

 “You know what I said.”

“Oh, wow.” The situation was so unbelievable, you could almost laugh. When you grab your bag to leave, Rex gets a hold of your arm. “Please don’t go again” he pleads with bright green puppy eyes. If you were just a little bit more star struck, you might have fallen for his act. 

But maybe you are, because the way he looks at you makes your heart ache. The curve of his lips as he pouts, the crinkle between his eyebrows, and the glimmer in his eye. They make you feel… Weak?

So weak in fact, that you sit down. ’What is going on with you?’ you’re taking a sip of water to recuperate your thoughts. “You don’t get to fucking call me that, Sloan”

“I’m sorry, really, I’m trying.”

 “Not hard enough.” 

 Rex almost fucked that one up again. He promised himself that he’d change after his life fell apart a few months ago, that he'd be a better person. A better man.

 So when you give him another shot to tell him about your day, Rex listens. He really listens. The actor sits there, chin resting on his palm, nodding through every detail you share. In fact, he doesn’t say much of anything outside of responses to your stories, and sharing laughs at your jokes. No, nothing of himself.

He doesn’t think you’d be interested anyway, his actor charm seemingly melting away when he’s in front of you. Around you, he feels weak.

 As the date comes to a close, Rex stops you outside, hesitating and shuffling on his feet. He digs into his pocket, searching for something; and holding it in his hand. “I know I was a dick, last time,” pausing “and today” Outstretched, in his palm, was your ring. “I’m real sorry.”

“Oh, so you’re a thief now too?” your arms are crossed, and your face is in a scowl. Rex’s face immediately dropped, cringing. His shoulders rode up, hands raised “–I know it looks bad, but I swear, you left and–wait, are you laughing?”

 You couldn’t help yourself, the look of guilt on his face was just so precious, Rex was so pitiful. His tensed body finally relaxes when he realizes.

“I’m fucking with you!” you managed to choke out in between laughs, doubled over and hysterical, “Obviously I’d notice my favorite ring missing” You stabilized yourself with one hand on his shoulder. “Took you long enough to bring it back” looking up at your date, he’s blushed red with embarrassment, lips upturned into a wry smile

 “You’re so mean” with a chuckle. He nudges you away, removing your hand on his shoulder, and placing it into his. Rex drops the ring in your palm. He stays like that for a while, holding hands and looking deep into your eyes. The image burns itself into the crevices of your soul, it's like he’s looking right inside you. Could he see how nervous he’s making you? His face was hard to discern. It sends chills down your spine, so you let go of him. 

The atmosphere is dampened, silence replaced the laughter that filled the air just a moment ago. Rex jumps when he looks at his watch, “Shit, I’ve gotta go” eyes wide. He pulls you into a quick hug, and rushes away, yelling from a distance “I’m sorry! I’ll make it up to you!”

You watch him as he disappears into the city, walking to who knows where. The urban-scape  looks just a little brighter as you walk back to your office, you chalk it up to ‘must be the summer’.

The next morning, your doorbell rings and is followed by three loud knocks, waking you up. The bright warm glow of the sun peeking through your sheer white curtains blind your eyes as you open them. ‘God, who is even up at this hour on a Saturday?’ You scramble together a loose shirt and shorts before making your way to the door.

Rex alternates standing anxiously, pacing around, and deciding whether or not it's appropriate to knock again. He worries he’s just wasting your time, that you’d probably tell him off and to go home. So lost in his thoughts and pacing in circles, he hadn’t noticed you leaning against your door frame.

“Sloan?” your voice echoes into the empty corridor, still hoarse from just waking. The footsteps stop, and the redhead’s eyes trail up from the ground towards you. Your hair was down, shirt hung loosely against your figure, slippers on. His mouth opened, but he struggled to find the right words;

 ‘Hello, gorgeous’ was creepy. ‘Good morning, beautiful’ is way too forward. ‘You look smoking, babe’ nope, absolutely not.

 “C’come in?” was all he could sputter out. It was laughable, but it was way too early in the morning to entertain. You roll your eyes, and reach to close the door. “Wait, wait!” the actor almost topples over in an attempt to stop you, “I wanted to make you breakfast!” He raises the grocery bag in his hand. It was full and heavy. Peeking out over the top was another, less extravagant, but still impressive, bouquet of flowers.

“Fine” you turn into the apartment, needing to crawl back into the comforts of your bed, too sleepy to really be bothered by his presence, just for now. The actor follows behind.

You hadn’t changed too much, he still knew his way around the space and its small quirks that were ingrained into the back of his mind. Like how the door needs to be pushed close twice to actually really close; and how he has to move a few inches to his right every time he enters the small open-kitchen because the island jutted out just far enough for him to hit his hip on it. 

A vase sat on your bedside table with the bouquet of flowers he got you yesterday. That was new. 

Morning air fills the cramped apartment when you open the window. Immediately after, you snuggle back into the comforts of your bed that was situated right under it; quickly dozing off into sleep again.

You looked so peaceful.

Rex busied himself in your kitchen, though he caught himself getting lost in his thoughts as he looked at you every now and then. 

‘Have you always looked this pretty? Was he so absent that he hadn’t noticed all this time?’ his thoughts plagued him.

It wasn’t long before you had woken up again. The dulcet smell of freshly made breakfast, and your ex humming a tune were an odd combination of things to rise to.

You made your way to the kitchen, Rex’s back still towards you. “Why are you here?” you ask, situating yourself a spot on the dining table.

“Oh hey, you're up” That tune again.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

Rex paused his humming, frozen where he was standing. A few beats later “I made pancakes!” he turns around, presenting two plates of pancakes with a big, toothy grin and a ‘ta-da!’

You didn’t press further.

Two plates of golden pancakes served with whipped cream, berries, and two cups of hot tea; laid out on your table. In all the years you’d been with Rex, you have never seen him cook anything outside of a cup of noodles. It was delightful, sure, but suspicious.

As the actor takes the seat in front of you, the view pulls at your heartstrings. You can’t remember the last time you were eating breakfast like this.

 Breakfasts had been so lonely as of late.

You were forking a slice of your pancake in silence when you finally broke it; “Why are you here, Rex?” He stops chewing, responding with his mouth full “... To make you breakfast?” delivered with a shrug. If your face could drop any more, it would, ‘was he always an idiot?’

 You take another bite, “Seriously, why have you been so insistent on seeing me all of the sudden?”

 “I just am, I guess…”

 “You’re what?”

“Drawn to you” you look up and his eyes meet yours. He was serious, lips curled to a smile that dripped with sincerity.

You chuckle, forking another slice before saying “Guess I can’t shake you off, huh?” “Oh, not that you’d want to anyway” His response earns him a glare that freezes the grin on his smug face. It seemed like every time Rex took one step forward, he took two back.

Bitterness fills your mouth, and your face contorts with it. 

The pancakes were burnt underneath.

When he finally left, around noon, you found yourself staring up at your ceiling. Bed, still messy from where you had been just lounging and talking. Your body felt like it had spent all of the laughter it could muster for a month in just two days; exhausted, but content. Not too long after that, your phone started to blow up with messages.

And it was exactly the same for a whole month after. You talked to him almost every single day. Rex crept into your life and routine, so slowly that you hadn’t even realized how normal it was getting. Only when you found yourself in the office getting pried about this Rex Sloan actor going on ‘secret dates’ did you really notice. Your co-workers gossiped about their latest celebrity crush, particularly the hot-head from that TV show; and you found yourself turning your phone upside down on your desk, so no one can see who you’re really texting.

At nights, you found yourself giggling, staying up at night calling, talking about your day and sharing jabs at each other. In the mornings, checking for new messages had become part of your routine again, when it hadn’t in so long. 

He pampers you with sweet nothings, and takes you out on surprise dates. He makes you sick with each saccharine-coated compliment.

But every time it gets too real, you want to pull away. 

You could never really get over it, how he looked that night behind the rose-tint of your sixth cocktail. How the sweat glimmered on his skin as you shared a dance. The blinding light of the hotel corridors when he kicked you out.

And Samantha.

Every time it gets too real, you’re reminded of who Rex really is. You could never really trust a man like him again. So why, when he keeps asking to get back together, can you not just say no?

Way too fucking real.

It kills him too, no matter what he does for you, it does him no good. Rex stays up just a couple hours longer after you send your last message, every single night. Reminiscing on your hips swaying to your favorite song, the dress you wore, and how it rode up your thigh. Replaying that night, how your lips crashed into his as soon as the hotel door closed, your back arching when he–.

Rex was panting. He wasn’t sure when it had gotten so hot in his room, or when he had started sweating. His palm rubbed against his boxers; he wasn’t sure when that had gotten so hard either. The sounds you made as he fucked into you were just ethereal, clear as day in his mind. His phone falls out of his hand as his head dips deeper into his pillow. He couldn’t help the moans that escaped him. In fact, he couldn’t help any of this. The memory of your pussy pulling his cock into you rushes blood down his body. He kept his eyes on where you two connected, how your cum glistened against the light every time he pulled out. It drove him crazy. 

No, he couldn’t help taking his cock into his hands either. His grip barely matched how tight you felt. Pumping it so hard and so fast he’s practically fisting it. His back arches as he pictures your hair tangled in between his fingers, free hand digging into his blanket just to remember how it feels. The way you begged for him, needed him, your body didn’t lie.

The redhead was so close, his whole body tensed, toes curling, reaching for his climax.

But the look on your face when he tossed you a towel. The tears in your eyes that you held back as you left. And the quiet he had to sit in with his thoughts, completely alone.

‘Fuck’ the way the memory replays in his head makes him sick. He hated how he thought about you at every waking moment, and the reality that it's no longer just driven by lust, but laced something more. 

He’s disgusted by how he could even be thinking of you so lewdly right now.

Now he thinks his messages and blatant attempts are pathetic, especially when you turn him down. He’s Rex fucking Splode from Invincible, he could have anyone he wants. So why, when you say good morning to him, he can’t help but ask what you dreamt about? And why does he wish you’d say you dreamt of him, every single time?

When you ask him to try harder, he does; even when he knows that no matter what he does, it does you no good.

The actor turns in his bed instead of finishing. He doesn’t even think he deserves it anymore. 

Weekly dates, occasional breakfast and lunch meet-ups, turned into something you had every other day. On some, he’d pick you up from work and drive you to a nice restaurant; on others, he'd walk you to after a hearty breakfast. However, there were days the actor just didn’t show at all without leaving a message, only apologizing the late morning after.

You two were ‘nothing’, going as far as attempting to convince yourself you weren't even really friends. On those days, you felt sourness boiling in your stomach; the kind of sour that bubbles up to your heart and leaves you gloomy for the rest of the day. You had even gone to the doctors for heartburn, but they found nothing.

It was just disappointment, and you hated how hot it brewed inside you. In your hatred, you’d started writing a list of all the things you’d started to dislike.

First, he wormed his way back into your life, like the parasite that he is.

You stopped being able to cook your own meals, because he’d always ask you out to fancy dinners. When you weren’t eating out, he was cooking. And god, was he a lousy cook, ‘was he trying to poison you?’ ran through your mind every time he served a burnt dish.

You stopped cleaning up too. The redhead always seemed to pick up after himself now, and when he couldn’t, he’d hire a cleaning maid to come by. 

Worst of all are the flowers. They littered your apartment as he wouldn’t stop buying you one every time you saw him. After the fourth bouquet, you had to beg him to settle down, that you couldn’t possibly find any more space for them. That’s when he started getting you stems instead.

They were the prettiest ones you’d ever seen too.

The flowers crawled along every surface of your apartment, multiple vases and pots along your windowsills, shelves, and tables.

They were a constant reminder of the actor, how much he’s ‘pretending to have changed’.

Four bouquets, forty-eight flowers, and the forty-ninth is a white tulip in Rex’s hand. The actor presses a kiss on your cheek as he hands the stem to you.

“You make a good morning even greater, beautifu–” “Uh-huh, sure” cutting him off, you turn inside your apartment, placing the tulip on the dining table as you pass it. You hear the door hit the frame, squeak open, then slam shut. Its lock clicks behind you. Rex puts down your coffees, pastries, and his keys on the table as he follows you in. 

You plop onto your couch, turning on the TV to catch up on whatever news the morning has for you. Rex hovers, not daring to step past the sacred space dividing him and you, a rug, uninvited. It was way too early, the sun hasn’t set its blinding eyes onto your side of the world yet.

If the TV could scream from the pain of your irises burning into its screen, it would. You kept your eyes on the moving pixels, avoiding the redhead’s. “Did I do something wrong?” he finally asks, defeated. Still glued onto the TV, “Why would you think so?”

“You just–I don’t know…”

You finally look at him with a long sigh. Rex’s shoulders are slumped over, his hands in his pockets, moping. “Did you not want me around for breakfast today?

“I could just leave if you want me to”

Your gaze falls, unsure of what to say. He really hasn’t done anything wrong, and your hate-list only proves so. The disappointment just wouldn’t leave you.

“No, please stay” you barely whisper. Begging felt humiliating, but the guilt of treating him so poorly just now was worse than anything else. You continued, “I’m sorry, I guess it's just a bad morning”

The actor almost immediately brightens up, sharing with you small anecdotes about his day. The cafe he stopped by this morning had the most beautiful assortment of pastries, and he just couldn’t decide on which to get you. So he got you one of each.

You shared the pastries on your balcony, the dark hue of the sky just barely meeting the first light of the day. Cold wind blowing in your hair, morning dew, and hot coffee; all at once with the same man you’d fallen in love with in high school, whom you’d sworn against.

The croissants ended up being your favorite, the rest were just a bit too sweet for so early.

“Think we should go” you’re dusting off the crumbs from your shirt, scooting the stool away from the table that hangs from your balcony railing. The most adorable smile is plastered all over Rex’s face as he watches you “How ‘bout I bring ‘ya to a cocktail lounge tonight?”

The weather was bright and warm, summer was approaching and you could feel it in the warmth between yours and the redhead's hand. He held onto you like you'd fall out of his grasp at any minute, and it scared him. When you finally arrived at your office building, Rex didn't immediately let go.

“I have an audition to go to” his fingers brush against your palm as his hand slips away, “I promise to pick you up as soon as it's over” the sensation is electric, like heat traveling between your bodies. It sends shivers down your spine.

You nod, cheeks burning from the smile you hadn't realized was on your face. The eye contact between you and the actor refused to break, even when your body was screaming for you to start moving. Screaming that you were late. Screaming.

Screaming breaks the line that was tethering you to the redhead, “Oh my god! Is that Rex Sloan!?” 

You had to stay behind at work for half an hour, jammed with articles to copyright. As soon as your shift ended, you looked for Rex immediately. It felt so wrong to be excited to see him again, but the past month has really made you rethink things. Suddenly, having him around doesn’t seem half as bad any more. On a bench nearby, you spot the redhead sitting quietly. In his hand he holds a single tropical flower blossom, one he’s never given you before. He twists it between his fingers deep in thought, his face unreadable. Beside him is a shopping bag. 

“Sloan!” when you called out to him, he immediately lit up with a smile on his face. He meets you halfway with a tight hug, squeezing you just one more time before he finally lets go. “I was worried I had already missed you”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t message you”

“It's alright, I’m just glad to see my girl” when the words left his mouth, he clasped it with both hands, eyes wide. “Sorry!”

You nudge him with a chuckle, “Your girl, huh?” raising an eyebrow. After a short, awkward pause, you ask “Where are you taking me out?” Rex doesn’t respond. Instead, his eyes drop to his feet and he blows a whistle. “... So, the thing is” he trails off, hoping to delay his next few words.

The change in the actor’s demeanor makes your palms clammy and heart pound. You could only think of the worst; ‘Rex has a girlfriend, whatever you two had is finally over’. The air around him feels just a little bit more chilly than it had been before, and you instinctively distance yourself from him. The redhead might be clueless sometimes, but he isn’t a complete idiot. He notices the step back you took, the tears welling in your eyes, and the wall that was forming between you.

“No–no, I just need to take you back to my condo”

SMACK!

Suddenly the cold between you two felt really hot, especially on Rex’s cheek. “What the fuck do you take me for, Sloan!?” His mouth falls agape, hand caressing the spot where yours had just met his face. “Did you really think I’d fall for this shtick again?

That you could just worm–back into my life–to fuck–what even are we!?” your voice falters, forcing the words out felt like they were burning you alive. Rage seeped out of your skin, sticky, gluing you to where you were. And Rex? Rex just stood there, eyes wide.

Only when you finally turned your back on him, was he able to take your hand and pull you back. “Sorry, please,” your name falls out his mouth like a plea “That came out all wrong” “Then what the hell were you supposed to say, Rex?”

He holds out the bag to you, “A change of clothes, that's all!” Rex begged. “I’ll stay outside the whole time, I promise!" The stars must have really aligned in his favor that night, because you couldn't help but melt for him. Years on self-work, therapy, and actively cutting the redhead out of your life; all crumbling, and you couldn't care any less. You snatch the bag from his hand "Fine, but don't pull shit on me, Sloan. Or you'll never hear from me again."

The actor didn't lie when he told you his condo was just an 8 minute walk away, it was just barely a trek away from your office. You wondered if he got that condo specifically because it was so close to where you were, but you'd never directly ask him that.

A tall, stunning, high-rise building lay before you. Intimidating doesn't cover it, the difference between you and the actor's life now stark and noticing it is unavoidable. You take the elevator up to the penthouse, this being the first time you've even been in one. Rex wasn't wrong, he really was 'too big now for your relationship'.

Now, 'staying outside' wasn't quite straight forward for Sloan's penthouse. The elevator doors opened straight into his unit, leaving no space to be truly "outside". Huge was, again, another understatement. The ceilings were so high, practically every light fixture was a chandelier. Right in the middle is a large sunken living room with a fireplace. Brown, gold, and black littered the space, every piece of furniture seemingly picked out from a magazine. It was warm.

But not warm enough to fill the cold spaces Rex has to live with. A successful actor with a large penthouse, all alone.

Rex insisted on giving you space, sitting quietly in the conversation pit. The couch so big it looked like he was engulfed in the cushions. Leaving you to explore the unit on your own and find a space to get dressed in private.

It was all so foreign to you, a home that didn't require you to mold into it; no tight spaces to squeeze into, awfully placed windows, and doors that needed an extra kick to close. You gravitated towards the first door you find, opening into a spacious bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows, fuzzy carpeted flooring, and a nice king-sized bed in the middle of it all. Fitted with dark grey sheets and a comforter, the mattress was soft and had a bounce to it when you set your full weight down. You couldn't help but notice how clean it all was, in fact, clinically clean. The whole place looked barely lived in.

The only bit of mess anywhere you could find were on the bedside table. A scattered stack of business cards for florists. Which reminds you of what you were here for, a change of clothes.

Inside the shopping bag was something that made your heart twist, and your stomach fill with butterflies. A satin dress in your favorite color, and a note.

"For the prettiest girl in my life"

The article fit you snuggly, tight and loose in all the right places. Just like it was made for you.

Rex's face drops as soon as he sees you—you were the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on. Eyes that once wandered about your figure, now just glued to lips. He shakily breathes out a "wow" before stepping up to you and placing the tropical flower behind your ear. "You look amazing"

 The cocktail lounge was right in front of his condo, you can't help but think 'how convenient'.

Dim, warm candle-lit tables, chandeliers that glimmered with crystals, a quiet jazz band playing, and red velvet cushioned booths. To no surprise, Rex already has reservation, a table for two and cocktails ordered in advance. It wasn't like anything you've had before, coming in a stout whiskey glass, light brown, sweet, with a skewered slice of caramelized banana on top. The actor had the same.

This place was more extravagant than anything your ex had taken you to before, yet more peaceful too. "D'ya like it?" the redhead smiles, pointing at your glass. You love it, but you take a beat before responding "sweet, like you, Rex" His face turns crimson red and he stammers, tripping over his own words "I, uh—tha… you—hah" rubbing the back of his neck.

Was he always this cute?

Eventually your date regained his composure by clearing his throat "How was work?" he starts. Rex wasn't ever too good at small talk, although it seems like when it came to you, he didn't mind striking it. And these past few months have proved that he really listens when does ask.

So you ramble on and on about your day. Eventually you ended up on how the girls who saw you with him pestered you all day about what you two were. "Well, what are we?" he perks up with a smirk, a palm extended out you. "I don't know, what do you want us to be?" You place yours in his gently. Softly, in a lower register, the actor responds "Doesn't matter, I just want to be yours"

And just as if planned, your favorite song comes on "Care to dance with me?" the redhead stands, your hand still in his. You follow suit with an "Of course" Rex flashes a wink at the waiter who was paid extra in advance to get the band to play it.

With both his hands on your waist, and yours resting on his shoulder, you sway in unison to the beat. His hold on you easing away any bit of worry you ever had that day. The world was still. No office to rush to cutting dates short, no mind to the cold bed you'll crawl into. Its just you and his green eyes.

"Well, how long?" the way your eyes sparkle as you look up at him makes Rex's knees buckle. He spends this whole time pressed against you, dancing, hoping you wouldn't notice the erratic pace of his heartbeat. "Hm?" his eyebrow perks up

"How long are you willing to wait to be mine?"

"For the rest of my life, I guess"

And he's frozen. You leaned in and kissed him. You actually kissed him. Rex melts into your soft lips, strong arms pulling you in even closer. He's one lucky man for a beautiful woman like you to kiss him, he'd be a fool not to relish the moment.

Rex stands in your doorway, taking one good look at you before he turns to go home. He chuckles to himself, the world is blurry to him, but right now you are crystal clear. “Come in, sober up with tea” you turn back towards him, gesturing to join you inside. He thinks about it, but knows he's already overstayed his welcome “I'll make it home just fine, pretty thing” flashing you an earnest smile before reaching for your door. 

"You are one stubborn man, Sloan" you pull him in by his waist. The actor laughs "Woah—Okay, okay!" hands in the air surrendering to you.

And so hot tea is made, candles are lit, and a movie is played, but none of it is paid any mind when the actor has his mouth all over yours. Hands searching each other's bodies, hoping to find reasons to stop. Only finding reasons to keep going.

"Are you sure about this?" He asks gasping for breath. You pull him back in, one hand up his shirt. Tracing his toned torso, hard against your palm. "You complaining?"

"No, ma'am" delivered so serious and dripping with ecstasy. With no hesitation, Rex hikes up your dress, digits inching towards your panties. He pulls them to the side, dipping two fingers into your entrance. You gasp at the contact, having not realized you were aching for them all night.

"This wet, all f'me?" Rex asks under his breath, almost out of it with excitement. Rex presses against your spot, thumb rubbing small circles against your clit. You tremble, the sensation sending shivers up your spine. "You—hah, you know it, mmh" you rasped out between moans.

The redhead refuses to break eye contact with you as he sets his pace, fingers tenderly pumping in and out of you. The tempo is slow; Rex, savouring the moment. "Feel good, baby?" He coos, peppering your neck with hot kisses. You nod with a hand to your mouth to stifle moans.

"Let me make you feel even better, mama" Rex kneels in front of you, head between your legs. He licks through your clothed cunt, mouth latched onto your clit. Sucking through the fabric that separates you and him, all the while eagerly fingering you. His pace quickens, "So fucking pretty, baby" he purrs.

Rex pulls you so close to the edge, tipping you over, blood pumping through your veins. Your fingers pull at his bundled hair, messy and tangled. Hips, arching into him, fucking his face. His free hand busies itself with the inside of your thigh, massaging it. Time almost slows, every lap of his tongue sending static to your brain.

"Rex, please, I can't—ah! Not any… Not anymore" you're huffing, skin tingling and in tears. The redhead pays no mind to your pleas, "Cum for me, baby" words muffled and sending vibrations up your body. Rex finally pushes you over, slowing the pace of his hand and mouth as you ride out the high.

He pulls your panties out of the way, licking up your cunt and slurping up every bit of your release; like nectar he can't resist. Sultry eyes stare up at you, then he licks his fingers. God, you could melt into the couch.

The actor situates himself back beside you, grinning like an idiot in bliss. You kiss him again, needily, tasting yourself on his tongue. When you pull away, Rex moves away the hair on your face, removing the tropical flower along with it. Both of you falling into shared giggles, the moment still sending butterflies into your stomachs. Breaking the silence, Rex kisses you on the cheek "I better get moving, babe" He's fixing his hair and shirt.

"Where are you going?" your heart dips

Rex feels he's definitely overstayed his welcome, "Don't worry, baby" he carresses your cheek "I'll come back in the morning with breakfast" smile softening on his cheeks. You crawl over him, pinning him down on your couch.

You could practically feel his heartbeat through his shirt as you trace your fingers down his chest. His bulge presses against your clothed cunt, and grinding on it sets a fire deep in your abdomen. The redhead is quiet, eyes glued to your hands trailing down his body. He's denied himself for so long, he's worried the way your hips sway in circles on him is going to make him burst. “You've been so good to me, Rex” your voice makes his body jerk towards you, “Tell me what you need”

His cock twitches under you, body talking before his mouth could. A soft “I need you, mama” was all you needed to hear to unbuckle his belt and slide your hands in his pants. Rex bites back a moan, head falling back, searching for proof this is really happening in the comforts of your ceiling. He paws at your body, roaming under your dress and the clasp of your bra, unlocking it.

You pull his cock out of his pants, Rex pulls your dress over your head. Exposed breasts catch the dimmed city lights that peak through your blinds, the actor is mystified and starry-eyed. He 'has to be dreaming'. You sink down onto him, the stretch making you hiss. It's been way too long.

You bottom out, gasping at the sharp pain as he hits your cervix. Quickly settling into a slow tempo, the sensation of his length gliding in and out of you languidly gets your nerves drunk, easing the soreness. "You okay?" He checks in, thumb rubbing your womb. The pressure of his hand pushes your spot up against where his cock is inside you, overdriving your body.

Your pace quickens, snapping your hips against him in the pursuit of chasing an eagerly approaching orgasm. Rex can't help but stare at your breasts, bouncing and beading with sweat. His eyes trailed down your body, your muscle tightening on your core, and where his cock disappeared into you with every pound. That, he couldn't take his eyes off.

That's when he feels it, a hot knot forming in him. His eyes roll back, pleasure seizing hold of his body. His arms tense up, and his breath refuses to come down his throat. Blood pulsates down into his pelvis, and the hardness of his cock is getting unbearable. He whimpers your name, head falling, heaving.

Rex's large hands clasp onto your waist like its a lifeline. The waves steadily coming to a head, building up and threatening to crash. His body arches into yours, rough palms glide up your back. Amid moans, Rex paws at your tender skin needily, head buried in your chest. His eyes gleamed with the steady, warm flickering of the candles, as if flames lit within him too. When the actor looks up at the goddess on top of him “Please babe, can I?” he begs.

"Mhm—ah, fuck, mh" the world around you has gone hazy, and the way his cock throbs inside you has got you babbling. Rex is trembling under you, struggling to hold back his orgasm, "Babe, I can't—ha—please" he cries out. Stabilizing yourself with a hand splayed out on his chest, you regain some semblance of the lost rhythm. Lazily nodding a yes to him while the ache fully consumes you. "Awh—Fuck!" The redhead digs his rough hands onto your hips, emptying himself deep in your womb with so much cum it spills out.

All the while you're still chasing your own fill, inching so close its unbearable. His hands lock your hips in place, but your body does not still its frantic pounds. Rex bites the inside of his cheeks so hard he thinks it might bleed, overwhelmed by the sensitivity of an already-emptied cock. His mouth latches on your breast, kneading the other "That's it, mama" breathed out heavy on your chest. He rocks his hips, bouncing you on top of him. "Take it all out on me" A long drawn out moan falls on him, your head snapping back.

The tide finally crashes, and the knot in your stomach snaps. The man nips at your bud, hands massaging the soreness off your back "Take it all out, baby" Colors flash and bright light fills your vision. You cry out Rex's name, nails digging into his toned back. Your body trembles on him, cunt clenching hard on his cock. Rex rubs circles along the span of your back, easing you back into reality.

You lay your full weight on the actor, heaving and spent from the earth shattering climax. Rex still thinks he's dreaming all of this. unable to grasp the reality that all of this truly just happened.

Your gentle hands play in Rex's auburn locks, the sensation soothing his nerves; still sensitive from the high. He looks at you with longing, eyes still glassy, lips wet from your kisses. 

“I love you,” he says your name.

A/N: Its over, I'm dedicating this fanfic as a memoriam to Rex; rest in peace REX SPLODEEEEEEEE. I HC in my own fic that he actually already died in the show so thats why he has so much free time. Ending is up to you!! I would fold and say 'I love you too', but thats me.