Adventure And Studying

you were not prone to hysterics. you were not attention-seeking. and this moment, however it might feel for you, is still a precious reward. 

a blessing from the gods. your husband alive and well, with the maesters speaking of a miracle that they could not have hoped to predict. 

valarr and matarys burst through the doors as he asks you to find jena. find his wife. 

but your wife is sitting right in front of you, you think sadly.

you are almost thankful for it—you get up quickly, moving away from the bed, allowing his sons to come sit near him and take your place. they embrace tenderly, as the maesters urge them to be careful. both boys are relieved to the point of tears, something they were not afraid to show. 

you stand by kiera, who does not know nor understand what has happened. she’s not so far from you in age, and you find yourself hoping that she never has to feel what you are feeling in this moment.

valarr turns to find the two of you, and when you glance back towards baelor, you notice how confused his eyes look, though he corrects himself when matarys begins saying something, focusing on him again.

you wonder what he must be thinking, what he trying not to reveal. that his sons look years older than he last remembers, most likely. that he has no idea what has passed in the years since.

your mind feels sluggish and heavy, eyes wet with new tears that do not seem to stop. the very mention of jena has chipped away at a dam that you have been working so hard to build up these past few months of marriage.

you know your position. 

you’re a hopeless, romantic fool but you’re not an idiot. you’re only a second wife, and your husband is years older than you, with two grown sons. he shared a life with jena that you know near nothing about. 

he never intended on sharing a life with someone else. you had come as a surprise to him, you’re sure, and even now you still don’t know exactly why he had selected you.

even near death, she must come to the forefront of his mind. and why should she not? they were wed young, you know, with a happy marriage, blessed early with children. theirs, you imagine, was a most joyous union. you know from stories of her lively, good nature and how their match had been made in equal parts of love and duty.

it was a combination not often found in this world.

how could you hope to compare to that? how could his new marriage hold a candle to the sun that you know his previous one was? 

of course they were deliriously happy. you cannot, even to this moment, imagine finding any faults with baelor. 

he does not argue or fight. if he is stern, it is only because he is concerned and sick with worry. since you were wed, he has always spoiled you, though not only with physical items. you grasp the soft fabric of your skirts to steady yourself, forest green silk and myrish lace, one of your husband’s favorites. 

at least, it used to be his favorite. 

no, you think sadly, he spoiled me with his affection and kind words and gentleness. 

you can only begin to imagine how he will feel when he realizes jena is no longer of this world. something gnaws inside of you, wondering when that will be. the thought feels cruel to even think, and yet, you need to know. 

how much longer must you pretend that you are a stranger, a emotional lady of the court, a name he cannot remember, while your husband waits for someone who can never come back?

you stamp it down and bury the thought quickly as though it had caught aflame. it’s selfish and greedy—you want him to know the truth so that you might go back to his bedside and comfort him and be comforted yourself. 

in all that has passed in the last fortnight, all you have wanted is to be still and speak with your husband about it and have him do what he always does—make you feel better.

matarys may give you away. he is a little younger and very fond of you, and you have always enjoyed spending time with him. he still has his own memories of his mother, you know, and some of what you have learned about jena has come from his stories. but he still seeks you out when he wishes to complain of something or ask for your advice.

and you have so enjoyed it, the place that you fit in within your new family. the boys are baelor through and through, and though you’d once thought it would be uncomfortable to have step-sons close to your own age, you have had no doubts since you got to know them.

but matarys keeps turning to look at you in confusion and concern. your heart aches, wondering how sad they must feel, with their father bringing up their mother’s name, how painful it must be. 

you’d once thought you knew your place in your new family. but now, it seems as though you do not belong in this room. 

it’s not until the maesters usher all of you out, that you allow your emotions to take control of you again. 

the wail of a woman who hangs in the precipice of becoming a widow to a living man rests in your throat, waiting to come out. you tried your best to hold it together inside the chambers, staying silent against the wall, but you are not strong enough today to keep up the visage.

you and maekar are the last to leave. grandmaester malleon looks at you especially sadly as he finishes speaking with maekar. he shuts the doors and you realize this is the first time you have left the chambers with all the other visitors. 

as painful as the thought is, you know you cannot stay. baelor will ask questions that you cannot answer, and if your emotions and tears somehow interrupted the start of his healing, you do not think you could ever forgive yourself.

you stare at the black iron and wood of the chamber doors. behind you, somewhere, you hear valarr speaking to maekar with a fervor you have never heard before.

you can make out bits and pieces. your feet feel frozen to the ground, and you continue staring at the door separating you from your husband. valarr speaks of his father’s memory loss and says his mother’s name and you blink away your tears.

you think you hear your name being uttered as well, though you do not have the capacity to pay attention anymore. your head rings with a singular name—jena—and your body feels numb and empty.

behind the barrier, on the other side of where you are no longer allowed, your husband rests, finally awake. all the realm can release a breath they have been holding for half of a moon’s turn. 

you bring a hand to your belly. a renewed fear floods you, traveling from your beating heart all the way through until your hand shakes. if he never remembers you, if he never goes back to being the baelor you knew and loved, what would become of your child? the child you had been praying to the mother for, the child you had thought of every time your husband fell asleep next to you. 

baelor would jest that one day, perhaps, the two of you may be blessed with a daughter. that there would be so many years between her and matarys. that valarr and kiera might have children by then, too. and then he would kiss your forehead and hold you tightly until you fell asleep dreaming about a little girl with familiar, lovely mismatched eyes.

you are not certain how long you stand there, lost in your own thoughts, until maekar comes to guide you away.

“let the maesters do their work,” he says, leading you to where daeron sits with aegon. you take a seat across from them, and though they are relieved their uncle is awake, there is a sadness in them you cannot place.

perhaps you do not want to think anymore of the sadness of others. you have enough of your own to fill this entire room, to fill every chamber of the red keep.

maekar stands by his sons. you can no longer hear the voices of valarr and matarys, and you look around for a moment, searching with your wet eyes.

you should wonder where they are, make sure that they are well. that is your duty to them, one of your responsibilities as baelor’s wife. but you think, holding your trembling hand tightly with your other to steady it, that if you speak, the dam may burst altogether. 

selfish, you think quickly and meanly. they are living through the death of their mother all over again and all you can think of is yourself. 

tears well up again, and you turn at the sound of footsteps, wondering if it is matarys. through blurry eyes you fix your gaze, and when you see him, you do not know what takes over you. 

it is as if your body has a mind of its own. you rush to your feet, moving as quickly as you can, the tears streaming down and not stopping, even as you try to will them away.

you’re no longer only filled with sadness, but rather anger. rage and fury consume you—or maybe something else entirely, closer to blood and fire—if only for a moment, as you run to aerion and shove him with all your strength. 

he’s twice as strong as you, and you are weak now—weak from not eating and not sleeping and crying, though he stumbles slightly. 

you know he was not expecting it from you—quiet and shy as you are, especially around maekar’s family. the only person that truly knew you was baelor, and even he had worked hard to peel away the layers of your armor, made of courtesy and manners and kindness, until he knew the soft flesh underneath like the back of his hand.

only he knew. and now, you do not even have that small comfort. 

aerion’s violet eyes fill with flames, but his gaze shifts from you, still thinking you are mostly harmless. you hear maekar’s quick, heavy footsteps behind you, and aerion’s eyes focus on him instead. his father shouts something but you cannot make sense of it, not with your trembling hand resting by your side, shaking more and more.

aerion does not even look at you as he speaks.

“control your hysterics, woman-” aerion begins, and you interrupt him with a slap. 

your hand stings. striking him gave you a singular moment of something besides sadness, but it fades as quickly as it came. you sob as aerion grips your arm, holding it so tightly that he’s sure to leave a bruise.

“you dare strike me-” he spits, when he’s interrupted by his father.

“let go, aerion,” maekar says. “now.” 

aerion’s eyes flick between you and his father, and he drops your hand as though you had burned him. maekar stands between the two of you. and for another moment, the flames consume you too. 

you just want to feel something, anything, besides what you feel right now.

you push through maekar, trying to get to aerion. you don’t know what you intend to do, though maekar is strong enough to restrain you. he does not use his full strength, you know, though you do not know why.

“let go,” you cry out, fresh tears spilling on your cheeks. “it is all his fault, it’s his fault!” 

“do not blame me for baelor’s foolishness,” aerion says, his voice coated with vitriol. “i did not tell him to don the armor and defend that fool-” 

you feel maekar’s grip weaken on your shoulders, where he tries to restrain you. in any other state, you would perhaps recognize the impact your words were having on him. 

you have tried your best to console maekar, reminding him that it was, indeed, an accident, when he needed to hear it the most—the late nights in the chamber, when he would come visit baelor after everyone else had left. you had tried your hardest to convince him that you believed it, too, so that he might not lose himself in his grief.

but now… now it was all different. now you have lost your baelor while all the others have gained him back. 

“you did this,” you cry back, choked between sobs, unsure of whether you are addressing father or son. “it is both of you. he is lost to me because of you. my child may never know her father because of you-” 

you pull yourself away from maekar’s grip. you did not even realize the words had left your lips. 

you don’t possess the will to look in his eyes, but you force yourself to regardless, perhaps not understanding exactly the wound your words have reopened.

his lilac eyes are pained as he stares back at you. 

time seems to stand still again. you feel as though you have spent the last of your energy acting like a fitful child. you step away slowly, sitting down on the nearest armchair, as you hear daeron move, nudging aegon and ushing aerion out of the room as well. he says something to his father but you do not hear it.

maekar does not sit. 

a moment passes, then another. the air is heavy and laden with tension and sadness. 

“you are with child?” he finally asks, and you blink. you expect tears but find there are none to be shed. you still rub your eyes, the skin sensitive and painful. 

“i had my suspicions before we left for the tourney,” you admit quietly, feeling strange to hear the words aloud for the first time. your throat is dry. your hand stings from where you met aerion’s skin. “the grandmaester confirmed it just two nights ago.”

“does…” maekar trails off, his own voice strained. you grip your skirts again with the tight fist, feeling your hand begin to shake again. “does he know?”

you almost let out a laugh. a cruel, twisted sound. 

no, you want to shout. he does not know. and if i told him, he would not care. i am no longer his wife. i am but a stranger to the only person who has ever loved me. and it is because of you and your son. 

you swallow the sound and blink again, meeting maekar’s eyes. they are anguished as your own.

and despite whatever you feel, you would never hurt him intentionally. you feel regret seeping into your skin at what you said previously—realizing how easy it is to fall into anger’s tricky web. 

baelor was always cool-blooded. he had control of his emotions like no other. he did not harm others accidentally with his words. you would have learned to do the same, you’re sure, with more years spent by his side. 

“i am sorry,” you finally say, the words coming out quiet as a whisper. “i… did not mean to be hysterical. it is only that i am afraid.” 

you want to say more—that you should not have struck aerion, that you know it was all a horrible accident, a cruel, twisted game that the gods are playing on your family. that you have no idea of what will happen next. that you do not want your child to grow up without a father.

that you do not want to be a stranger to your husband for a moment longer.

you stay silent, staring at your betrothal ring, and wait for maekar to speak.

“be not afraid. he will remember, i am sure of it.”

he pauses, and you look up quickly. something feels strange in the way he is speaking.

he is not angry at you, not even upset at your outburst, though you know how he feels about such things—you have heard the way he curses and shouts when his children have done something wrong.

and isn’t that what you are now? acting as a petulant child, like one of his brood that he always has to chastise? where is it now—his anger and intolerance for such behavior? where is your speech about controlling your emotions? the half-hearted quips that reveal the truth—that underneath all of that, true concern and emotion lies behind everything maekar says?

there is something afoot, and your body feels it before your mind recognizes it. a terrible ache begins rolling through you, pain as though someone has struck you with a mace.

“He has a job, my angel.” Steve wasn’t at work, and you knew that he was planning on spending the night at home. But you hoped he was sleeping or doing something he actually enjoyed. He’d been so busy with work and wrangling your adopted children lately, you didn’t want to disturb him. “And other friends.” 

“If you call him, he will come.” El says it so bluntly, it makes your heart stutter. She’s so sure of it.

“And it’s crazy you think he’d rather do anything else.” Max rolled her eyes. “He’s obsessed with you.” 

You could feel the heat rushing to your face. You grabbed the phone, pulling the cord tight over the back of the couch. “Wanna order pizza?” 

“They called you when they were supposed to be ordering the pizza, didn’t they?” 

“Yep,” Steve said, popping the ‘p’ and not even bothering to hide his grin. He slipped past you, pausing only to push a firm kiss to your cheek. 

“I told them to leave you alone!” your swirled around, eyebrows raised and hands firmly planted on your hips. El and Max at least had the decency to look somewhat chastised. “You’re supposed to be relaxing!” 

“Spending time with my girls is relaxing.” 

Okay, there was no way you could complain after that. El and Max scampered off the couch, following Steve into your kitchen where he had dumped the bags.

“Okay, strawberry for El,” he said, mostly to himself. “And vanilla for Max.” He pulled out one more pint, in your favorite flavor. 

You shouldn’t be surprised that he had gone overboard. Three pints of ice cream, and all the toppings that you could dream of were already littered across the counter. And there were several bags to go. 

“Stevie, this is too much.” You insisted, crossing your arms. God, was he pouting? 

“You never let me spoil you!” 

“The number one rule of having a boyfriend is that you have to let him spoil you.” Max said, the words muddled around the half bar of chocolate that she had managed in one bite. El nodded emphatically, rifling through one of the bags and pulling out a box of Eggos. 

Steve’s eyes were wide as he gestured in agreement. “See? They get it.” Steve rummaged through your drawers, finding an ice cream scoop easily, like he’d done it a million times. 

You reached for the cabinet with the bowls, but Steve’s hand snatched yours out of the air. “Baby, go sit down. We’ll make you a sundae, right girls?” Steve’s eyes were wide and pleading, and he knew he’d already won. 

You nodded, reveling in the kiss he placed on the back of your hand, squeezing a few times before letting it drop. You stumbled back into the living room, plopping on the couch and letting the sounds of Steve arguing good naturedly with the girls wash over you. 

A few hours later, and you’d all eaten through half of the ice cream, cried through the ending of E.T. and someone avoided getting reprimanded for the way that you and Steve were tangled on the couch together. He had one of your hands between both of his on his chest, gently playing with your hand and lightly kissing your fingerprints at irregular intervals. 

You hadn’t planned on the girls staying over, but they’d fallen asleep before the trailers had finished on the second VHS. You’d cleared it with Hop and Mrs. Mayfield before Steve had carefully carted them both into your parent’s guest room. 

The two of you were snuggled on the couch together, a movie playing softly in the background, though neither of you were paying it all that much attention. Steve was warm and the blanket he’d pulled off the back of the couch was soft against your skin. His chin was tucked on top of your head while he pulled you tight against his chest. 

“Think you could get used to this, honey?” 

“Used to what?” 

“All of it.” You caught his gaze wandering around the room, taking in the aftermath of a successful night with your girls. Used cotton rounds scattered across the coffee table, a half finished bowl of popcorn and seemingly every blanket in a five mile radius piled up on the rug. 

Your heart twisted, because you knew exactly what he meant. You reached for one of his hands, carefully testing to make sure the bright pink polish had dried before threading your fingers together. You weren’t surprised at how easily he’d gone along with their request to paint his nails, and you weren’t surprised at the butterflies it’d set off in your stomach. 

Steve didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “Wanna come home to this every day.” 

“Didn’t think you were in the market for more roommates.” you laughed, softly. 

Steve rolled his eyes, but the hearts in them were more obvious than ever. “Kind of rude to call our future kids roommates, if you ask me. I imagined them looking a lot more like you than those two do, anyways.” 

“Stevie,” you grumbled, hiding your face in his chest. You felt him smile against the top of your head. Flustering you was one of his favorite pastimes. 

“I’m serious, baby. Know you’d be the best mom,” he sighed, “Too sweet not to be.” 

You chanced a peek up at him, and the sight took your breath away. His eyes were shut, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips and a little blush dusting over his cheekbones, tinting his freckles pink. 

It wasn’t the first time the two of you had talked about this. It was always like this, hushed wishes and warm words. You’d get lost thinking about Steve cuddling a tiny baby, probably born with a full head of hair if his genes had anything to say about it. You couldn’t help but think he’d thrive as a dad. How easily he’d fall into the rhythm of school pick up and soccer practice. And you wanted him to have all of it. 

You sat up, forcing him to open his eyes at the loss of contact. He leaned forward, instinctively chasing you. “Are you sure it’s gotta be six, Stevie?” You asked meekly. 

“I’ll take as many as you want to give me, honey. One? twenty? Doesn’t matter. Whatever makes you happy.” His eyes went soft.

“Stevie, you give in too easily!” you laughed, swatting at his chest. He caught your hand, placing exaggerated kisses up the length of your arm. 

He’d reached your face, settling kisses easily across your cheeks and the tip of your nose. “Wrong.” he mumbled, too focused on his new mission. 

“Wrong?!” you hissed, careful not to yell and wake up the girls. 

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, the vibration tickling your neck. “It’s not giving in if I want my girl happy and healthy.” 

“Thought you wanted enough Harringtons to stock a basketball team?” 

“Priorities changed.” 

You grinned, leaning your forehead against his. “Don’t deserve you.” 

You felt Steve sigh, pulling you tight against him. “Good news. You don’t have to earn me.” You were sure he could feel your heart stutter through your pajama top. “Besides, you're dead wrong about that. I’m way out of my league, here angel.” You were readying your rebuff, when his thumb found your cheek. “Just let me have this one, baby. You’re out of nail polish remover and Robin isn’t gonna let me hear the end of it when I show up with my manicure tomorrow.”

“Fine, we’ll have however many hypothetical children I want.” 

“Perfect.” he whispered, in a tone that you know he meant more than just letting you win the argument. 

But Steve catches your wrist, and spins you back toward him, and his face is flushed and his jaw is clenched and his eyes are on fire and…well, he must be having a similar thought process about your current state, because suddenly his mouth is crushed to yours and his hands are moving up to tangle in your hair with a ferocity that steals the breath from your lungs. He backs you into the door of his bedroom, slamming you against it and caging you in with his body so hard that the impact might hurt if it weren’t for his hand catching the back of your head to shield you from the blow.

“You drive me insane.” He growls, low, as his furious hands tug your shirt over your head like the garment is the most offensive thing he’s ever seen. “Never fucking listen. Always talking back.”

“Take this off.” You tug at his own shirt, breathless and growing increasingly more desperate with each layer of clothing remaining between you.

“And bossy.” But he pulls his shirt over his head, ducking back down to bite at your neck hard enough to make your knees buckle.

“Oh, I’m the bossy one now-“ he cuts you off with another bite, hands sliding over your waist as he presses you tighter against the door until there doesn’t seem to be a millimeter of space left between you.

“Do you have any idea what could have happened if I hadn’t been there in time?” His words are dangerously quiet against your jaw, and you think he might be shaking. You pull back, catching his lips with your own as you begin to fumble with his belt. He responds faster than the crack of a whip, snatching your wrists with one hand and pinning them to the wall above your head without once breaking the kiss.

“Never sticking to the fucking plan.” He continues between demanding kisses, the fingers of his free hand working expertly at the button of your jeans. “Never. Fucking. Listen.”

“We didn’t have time to- oh God.” Your defense is cut off with a gasp as his hand dives beneath your waistband, and you hear his breath catch as his skilled fingers find just how desperate you are for him.

“Fuck-“ for just a moment, his composure breaks. You whimper, the sound leaving you before you can remember that you’re trying to sass him, and he crushes his lips to yours again as he begins to work you like a well-loved instrument. Despite his words, and the gravel still lacing his tone, his movements aren’t rough. He holds you still against the wall, completely in control, but his kiss is loving and his fingers are deft as they move in the exact way he knows will make you fall apart faster than you can think.

“Almost lost you, because you can’t stop throwing yourself into danger.” He murmurs, crooking his finger and adding a second in a single smooth movement that makes your toes curl.

“We didn’t have…t-time, fuck. Steve.”

“Still arguing with me.” He almost grumbles, but his voice is so raw and his fingers are speeding up inside of you and his thumb is working in small circles and you’re having trouble remembering to be pissy with him. That’s probably his fucking intention, but you definitely can’t complain right now. “You almost die, and two seconds later you’re arguing with me.” He pulls back, just far enough to let his nose bump against yours, eyes locked on your face like he’s trying to memorize every expression that crosses it.

He’s losing his grip on his anger, too. You can see the fury in his eyes replace itself with something like reverence as they look into yours, as he crooks his fingers again and swallows your gasp of helpless pleasure like it’s a drug. “Fuck, you’re beautiful. Hold onto me.”

He releases your wrists, and pulls his fingers back so quickly that you nearly sob from the sudden loss. Your arms move to lock around his broad shoulders before you can think, and his hands come down to the backs of your thighs so he can lift you against the wall and kiss you so hard and rough that you forget how to breathe right. His hips rock against yours, and when your nails dig into the warm skin of his back he groans low enough for the sound to vibrate through you.

“Want you.” You murmur, and he moans again as he pulls you back from the door and lowers you onto the bed, still so careful despite his anger.

Once again, your hands move down to tug at his belt, desperate for more of him, and once again, he bats them away.

“Not yet.” He murmurs into the hollow of your throat, trailing searing kisses over your collarbone as he crawls lower. Lower. You whine, arching your back in frustration as your fingers curl against his shoulders in a stubborn attempt to pull him back to you.

“Steve, just-“

He interrupts you with a sharp bite to your hip, hands already working to pull you out of your jeans.

“Do you really think,” his voice is even lower now, dark eyes still burning as he turns them up to you, “that after the shit you pulled tonight, you get to tell me how to fuck you?”

You do your best to glare, even as his words send molten heat through your already burning bloodstream. You can’t find it in yourself to answer, and his satisfied hum only makes you burn hotter. Cocky bastard.

“That’s what I thought.” He murmurs, thumbs hooking in the waistband of your underwear and pulling them down as you squirm with a desperation that makes frustration ignite in your core all over again.

He lifts your knee over his shoulder, ducking back down to drag his blunt teeth along the inside of your thigh, and you try so, so hard not to give in. To stay mad at him. To find the words to tell him that he was being overprotective and you had everything under control and just because you’re about to lose your mind with lust and need doesn’t mean you’re done yelling at him.

And then his mouth is on you, hot and skilled and overwhelming, and anything you might have said is cut off by a near-sob of pleasure.

“That’s it.” He murmurs, the words vibrating through you as your fingers tangle helplessly in his hair. “Lemme hear you.”

The way Steve Harrington can take you apart with his mouth should be studied by science. The way you see stars as he writes sonnets into your body with his tongue, the way his fingers join the machinations of his mouth to make you cry out so loudly you’re worried you might wake half the fucking neighborhood. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, and his hand moves up to push your knee back down onto the bed, moaning into you like he’s getting off on this just as much as you are and it’s so fucking hot you might die.

Your high approaches like a fucking freight train, barreling towards you almost alarmingly fast. It’s overwhelming to the point of near-pain, but Steve doesn’t stop. Not for a second. His hand leaves your thigh, sliding up your stomach and your ribs until you’re almost mindlessly clawing at the muscled bicep before you, desperate to anchor yourself to anything solid.

His hand catches your fingers instead, threading them through his own, and when you look down, his eyes are dark and starved and possessive and locked right the fuck onto yours, and you fall over the edge with a scream of his name.

When you come to, still struggling to catch your breath, it’s to your boyfriend climbing up your body like a panther poising to attack, lips brushing over any exposed skin he can reach like he’s trying to inhale you into his very lungs.

“So good. You did so good for me…” he murmurs as he reaches the hollow of your throat, and you can only raise a hand to comb your fingers weakly through his hair. Your grip tightens, however, when you feel his own fingers return to where they were aiding his tongue moments ago, making you gasp and squirm beneath him, still oversensitive.

“S-Steve.” You start, only to be cut off by a sharp gasp as he slips two digits inside of you without so much as a warning.

“Shoulda tied you to the fuckin’ headboard.” He growls, breath warm against the shell of your ear. The words make you arch beneath him, and it takes a lot more focus than you would like to admit for you to smirk.

“Still mad, huh?”

He catches the lobe of your ear between his teeth, and speeds up the movement of his hand until you’re writhing.

And once again, his fingers move and curl inside of you, relentlessly massaging your sweet spot until you’re shaking beneath him.

He kisses you, slow and hungry and deep, and whispers soft praise against your lips until he finally builds you slowly back up to the precipice. Works you open until you’re moaning and gasping shamelessly into his mouth.

Just as you’re about to combust, clinging to him like a lifeline, he pulls back.

“No no no-“ you gasp, mindlessly, and almost reach down between you before his hand flies up to catch yours, pressing it back against the sheets by your head.

“Shhh.” He coos, nuzzling into your cheek with a cocky smirk. “Not so quick to talk back now, are ya?”

“Asshole.” You wish you meant it. He laughs, kissing your cheek, and finally reaches down to tug his jeans over his hips.

He’s big. Almost too big. Even with all of the preparation, all of the time he took to work you open for him, the stretch makes you whimper as he pushes in, slow and careful and shaking with restraint.

“You can take it, baby.” He half-whispers, more than a little breathless himself, and squeezes your hand a little tighter as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. “I’ve got you. My girl. So fucking tight. Made for me, yeah? You were fucking made for me…”

He kisses you again, groaning as he sinks all the way into you, and begins to move in a slow, steady rhythm. Like he’s savoring every thrust. Like he’s taking his sweet time making sure each movement hits the deepest, warmest parts of you.

“S-Steve.” His name leaves your lips in a desperate gasp, and the fingers of the hand not holding your own tighten behind your knee as he pulls it up a little higher around his hip.

“What is it, baby?” He asks, teasing and soft as you writhe beneath him. His lips glide over the line of your jaw, and his next thrust is just a little rougher. A little more intense. It sends a shot of pleasure through you, but it’s not enough. Not nearly. You whimper, the fingers of your free hand digging deep into his bicep as you try to match his movements with your own. Try to create just a little bit more friction.

He tsks at you, holding you still as he presses his lips to yours.

“Mm, always such a firecracker.” He purrs, another slow roll of his hips making you keen. “But you get so sweet like this, don’t you?”

“Steve.” You nearly sob his name now, and he still doesn’t pick up speed, but he does slide his tongue between your lips with a rock of his hips that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“Shh,” he coos again , and you can see the restraint in his shoulders. See how difficult it is to keep his slow rhythm in the way sweat beads on his brow. “Be good, and I’ll give you what you want.”

“Y-you…ngh.” The insult dies on your tongue.

“I what?” He whispers, breath warm against your cheek. His hand tightens in yours, still teasing, and your toes curl as your head falls back against the pillows with frustration. More more more. You need more so badly you can’t think straight. You know he does too. You’re going to kill him. “You know what I wanna hear, sweetheart.”

He wants you to beg. You’re definitely gonna kill him.

“This is…you’re…” words are not your friend, it seems.

He thrusts a little harder, just once, and you whine. “C’mon, be sweet for me.”

“Please.” You nearly sob, and he grins as his free hand comes up to smooth over your hair. “Please, please please.”

“Good girl.” He purrs, and finally starts to speed up. Finally angles himself to hit that spot inside of you that has you moaning into his shoulder. “Was that so hard?”

“Steve.”

And even with the way his fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so he can kiss you so roughly you wonder if your lips might bruise, and the way he snaps his hips so hard against yours you wonder if the headboard is going to dent the wall, his fingers are still tangled in yours by your head. His eyes are still locked on your own, and there’s so much love in his gaze that you think you might drown in it.

You’re drowning in him, and you never want to come up for air.

“I love you.” He whispers, hoarse and hungry and raw. “I love you so much. Doing so good for me. Fuck.” He kisses you again, and you can do nothing but sob out more pleas and broken forms of his name.

You feel like you’re on fire. It’s so good it hurts. You can’t think. You can’t speak. You wonder for a moment if he’s somehow broken your brain, mind almost too empty to even register the sweet words he’s whispering against your skin.

You try to tell him so. Try to express the intensity of what’s building inside of you. The words fail, and you just choke on a whimper of “S’ t-too…”

“I’ve got you.” He kisses your cheek. Your nose. Your lips. “I’ve got you. Let go for me. Wanna feel it.”

And you do. You’re too far gone to even scream anymore, biting down so hard on his shoulder that you’re positive it’s going to leave a bruise and clinging to him with everything you’ve got as your vision goes completely white for the second time tonight.

“So good... Fuck, fuck baby.” His breath is warm against your throat as you slowly fall back to earth. He follows you over the edge, pulling back to press his lips to yours in a surprisingly gentle kiss as he comes apart with a guttural moan of your name.

You’re boneless. Exhausted. Damp with sweat and still trying to remember how to form coherent thought.

Steve seems to be in the same boat, collapsing on top of you and taking a moment to catch his breath. His nose nuzzles into the skin beneath your jaw, hand releasing your leg to slide lovingly up over your waist.

“You okay?” He murmurs, and you can only nod, reaching up to wrap your arms around his shoulders with an exhausted hum.

“Still mad?” You ask, and he finally pulls back to look down at you again, fingers tracing over your still-flushed cheek.

“You can’t do that.” He says, soft and just a little rasped. “You can’t…you have to be more careful. I almost lost you.”

“Well, if that’s how you’re gonna show me that you’re mad-“

“I’m serious.” He turns your face towards him, and his eyes are soft. Vulnerable. The fire and fury from before is gone. “I almost lost you tonight. You almost…” his breath stutters a little, “I can’t lose you. Don’t you get that?”

His thumb smooths over your cheek, like he’s savoring the feeling of your skin, and you can’t blame your exhaustion for the way your heart melts.

“Okay.” You turn your face, kiss the skin of his palm. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

He nods, and leans down to kiss you, slow and sweet and soft.

And as he gathers you into his arms, lips barely leaving your skin for more than a second as he shifts to wiggle you both beneath the covers, you completely forget that you were ever upset with him in the first place. Something about him being overprotective. Or bossy. Or both.

You’ll try to remember that you’re mad in the morning. Or not. Or you’ll just hold him, and remind him how much you love him in the dim light of his bedroom, and wait until you can feel your legs again.

Steve Harrington, the love of your life, drives you absolutely fucking crazy.