violetflowerswrites

“keep them open,” he commands softly, palm gliding down your ribs, across your abdomen, until it rests above your mound. “tell me if you want me to stop.” a somewhat performative question under this timing—his cockhead is already nudging between your folds. the first stretch sharpens beyond expectation: dense pressure blooming into fire along your nerves. you clutch his arms, biting your lower lip. he stills, allowing you a few seconds to adjust before moving forward another inch. your cunt throbs around the intrusion, wet but still tight, not used to being filled this way. his breathing is deep and measured, as if he’s trying to stay in control.

“breathe,” he murmurs, thumb catching your lip and gently forcing your teeth to release it. distracted, you comply. with one measured push, he sinks fully inside. your walls clench, barely accommodating. muscular forearms cage your head. stillness holds between you.

then he begins to move. deep, gliding thrusts, pelvis rocking against yours, muffled slaps marking the rhythm. behind closed lids, white sparks bloom like fireworks. his hand slips beneath your thigh, hooks it high over his hip. a hard thrust knocks an unbidden moan from your lips, and bruce dips his head down, lips grazing against your temple before kissing your collarbone, a juxtaposition to the relentless pace of his hips.

“mhm, good girl. you’re doing so well.” the praise makes you clench again. he groans, the sound deep and strangled, and fucks you in earnest, on a quest to his own release. a powerful tremor ripples through you, fingers clawing at his shirt as your senses narrow to the slick friction and his heavy breathing above. stomach clenching, walls squeezing around him, you fall apart with a sharp cry, wholly and completely undone. a few more thrusts, and bruce follows you to climax, burying himself deep to the hilt. his weight sinks into the mattress gradually—though his arms remain firm so not as to crush you. the room stills. he stays inside you, until your muscles stop trembling. you can feel the flutter of his heart beating against your chest.

JASON TODD .ᐟ

you’re on your back, legs parted awkwardly, body still twitching spasmodically from the delicious, thick stretch of his fingers. sweat pools in the hollow of your clavicle. your skin’s tacky. overstimulated. jason kneels between your thighs, one palm splayed flat on your abdomen. his mouth glistens, wet from you. so are his fingers.

“you good?” his breath is still ragged from the way he had you mere minutes ago—tongue buried deep, your legs hooked over his broad shoulders, the sound of your moans echoing off the walls. you nod. or at least, you think you do. because right now, your eyes keep flicking to his cock—thick and girthy, flushed a ruddy pink at the tip, kissing his sculpted abdomen. intimidating doesn’t begin to cover it. you try not to stare. fail spectacularly. jason catches your gaze and dips his face down, level to yours.

“we stop whenever,” he presses a tender kiss on the corner of your mouth. “just say the word.” you glance down again—at the size of him, the stretch you haven’t felt yet—and it dawns on you that you have no fucking idea how that’s going to fit. but you want to find out. your fingers curl tight around his wrist.

“i want to, jay.”

he leans forward, and you feel the blunt head of him presses between your folds. you inhale sharply. he pushes, slowly, and the burn is immediate. the first inch makes your whole body jolt, there’s simply too much of him—your body stretches around his girth with painful resistance—it’s too much.

he’s barely inside.

“you gotta relax, baby. it’s okay.” you nod, forcing your muscles to loosen. your body fights it anyway, not ready for how much of him there is. jason draws out a fraction, then eases in again, incremental. the ache sharpens.

“too much?”

your voice cracks when you say, “mghm—no. k-keep going.”

“brave girl,” smirking, jason kisses your cheek, then fucks in the rest of the way. the glorious stretch has your vision going white at the edges. he’s everywhere. you can feel every ridge and vein, splitting you in half. his palm slides under your thigh, lifts it higher for leverage. he stays still for a beat, forehead pressed to your collarbone, breathing heavy. your whole body pulses around him.

“i’ll go slow,” he promises. and he does. he slips in deeper, excruciatingly slow. sweat’s already beading at his temple. every time he pushes in, you feel yourself open wider, body forced to accommodate. you bite into his shoulder to stifle the noise that tears out of you when he finally bottoms out. he stays like this for a few seconds, relishing in your warmth, and you swear you can feel the tip of him in your stomach (albeit the logical part of you know that’s impossible.)

“you okay?”

you nod again. he grits his teeth and rears back his hips, then sinks forward again—testing how much you can take. the second thrust feels worse but simultaneously better. your cunt swallows him like it’s been waiting for him. the stretch is total, merciless, but it’s starting to slide easier now. you let him guide your legs higher. let him press his forehead to your collarbone and fuck into you with slow, controlled force.

one hand moves between your legs and rubs your clit in tight, repetitive circles. you whimper, hips starting to jerk up to meet his. “there she is,” jason breathes. “attagirl.”

you come hard—walls pulsing around him, toes curling, fingers scrabbling at his back. a string of curses fall past his lips, and he’s pulling out. wrapping his fist around the base before spilling hot ropes of come across your stomach. his cock twitches in residual spams as he trembles through it. a few seconds pass. then his forehead drops to yours, and you feel his smile against your cheek.

DICK GRAYSON .ᐟ

“we can stop, you know,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing the edges of your jaw. “i still want you. that doesn’t change anything.” your lips part, but no words come. it is a big deal. not because the “you’re-probably-about-to-lose-your-virginity” part—but because it’s with him. dick. his hair is rumpled from your hands, the rosy flush dusting across his cheekbones still fresh. he’s looking at you without the faintest trace of disappointment. he’s looking at you like he’d wait forever. you know he would.

he cradles your chin in his hand and kisses you—languid, almost chastely. fingers drift down to your throat, brushing along the curve beneath your breasts. your skin sparks under his touch, every nerve recalling how his mouth had latched around your nipple, how that tongue had worked you into a trembling mess mere minutes earlier. “tell me what you want,” he mumbles, voice thick against your lips.

“i… i want you inside,” you say, breathless.

“then we’ll go slow,” he promises, nudging your nose with his. “you’ll tell me what feels good. and we’ll stop the second you say so. okay?” you nod. his hand hooks beneath your the crook of your knee, lifting you effortlessly, positioning you astride him. your bare chest against the warm press of his, your slick core on the firm muscle of his thigh. emboldened, you rock against him, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“fuck,” he whispers. “you sure?”

“m’ sure.”

in one smooth motion, he rolls you beneath him, setting you gently against the mattress. his body settles between your thighs, cock flushed and heavy against your skin. he braces one forearm beside your head, presses a kiss to your temple. his hair’s mussed from your fingers, a flush running high on his cheekbones. he looks so unfairly pretty. you think, as he grabs the base of his cock and rubs it through your slick folds. then he lines himself up and pushes in, inch by excruciating inch. slow enough to feel every maddening stretch of him. the blunt pressure stings—dense, burning in the most exquisite way. you tense beneath him, nails digging pink crescents into his biceps.

“you’re doing so good, but remember to breathe for me, baby,” he coos. “almost there.”

your eyes flutter. the burn intensifies. oh god he’s not even all the way in.

“mghmm.” your nails sink into his biceps. he grunts, forehead tipping against your shoulder.

“fuck—sorry. too much?”

“no. keep going.”

he hums in response, then starts peppering kisses to your collarbone, then underside of your throat. the stretch still burns, but he makes it pale in comparison to pleasure. he rocks into you again, testing. the wet, squelching sounds between your bodies grow increasingly lewd as your walls slowly adjust, contracting around him. you let out a breathy moan. he pauses—one hand cradling your jaw, the other bracing beside your head. “is this okay?”

“yes—god, yes.”

he nods back, pressing a kiss to your breast before reaching down. his agile fingers find your clit and begin to circle. slow, patient, maddening. the dull ache sharpens into pleasure.

“that’s it,” his voice comes out muffled, sending vibrations through you. “you’re taking me so well.” lips close around your nipple, sucking hard.

you’re so, so close. he knows it too.

“dick—”

“i know baby. i’ve got you.”

your climax comes in an earth-shattering rush: coiling and snapping in your gut. you arch under him with a cry, muscles spasming around him. he groans into your shoulder, thrusts turning increasingly sloppy.

he doesn’t last much longer. his entire body seizes—cock twitching deep inside you as he spills, breath held in a shudder. he presses his forehead to yours. both of you are sticky with sweat, chests heaving.

“still okay?” his hand strokes the side of your cheek as he stares at you in starry-eyed adoration.

“yeah,” you whisper. “more than.”

he grins, looking pleased with himself.

TIM DRAKE .ᐟ

you lie beneath him, bare but tucked under the edge of the duvet, your legs spread and under the cotton. tim is still half-dressed—shirt rucked up his ribs, boxers pushed low, the weight of his cock resting hot against your hip. he hovers above you, arms braced on either side of your head, the crease between his brows betraying focus. not nerves. calibration.

you’d asked him to fuck you. he’d paused, repeated the question, asked if you were sure—then kissed you until your lips ached and your body melted, his fingers moving with unnerving precision between your legs. he’d made you come once already, two fingers sunken knuckles deep, thumb circling your clit in calculated spirals until your thighs shook and your spine arched from the mattress. he worked your body as if he’s read the manual, and has annotated it.

tim drake is always five layers ahead of you. he studies your face now, your breathing patterns, the residual tremble in your thighs. “do you want me to go slow,” he asks, quietly, “or do you want me to distract you?”

your brows pull together. “what’s the difference?”

“think about the first one as pain management,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching, “the other’s about cognitive misdirection.” heat floods your cheeks. you chew the inside of your cheek thoughtfully.

“distract me.” he nods and retrieves the condom from the drawer without looking. tears it open. rolls it on carefully. then he moves closer, knees nudging yours wider. you feel him line up, the blunt heat of his cockhead parting your folds.

“deep breath,” he says. “it’s going to sting a bit.”

you inhale. on the exhale, he starts to push in. the stretch is immediate. your body clenches down, instinctive resistance. pain flares—burning pressure around the unfamiliar girth. you dig your heels into the mattress, fingers tightening in the bedsheets. “fuck,” tim hisses through clenched teeth. “you’re—you’re tight.” his hands slide to your hips, thumbs pressing gently into the crease between pelvis and thigh. he doesn’t push any further.

“doing okay?” he asks, the edge of strain buried beneath concern. you nod, barely. he bends forward, presses his mouth to your temple, then kisses your throat. one hand curves under your knee, lifting your leg higher to angle you better.

“let me take care of the rest,” he says. and he sinks the rest of the way in with a deep exhale, jaw rigid as he bottoms out. his hips still flush against yours, the length of him buried to the hilt. your cunt clenches involuntarily, adjusting around the dense, aching fullness. he doesn’t move. not yet.

“do you want me to start?”

you nod, feverish with anticipation. he leans forward, presses a kiss to your cheekbone, and begins to thrust. the rhythm is measured at first—calculated, even. he’s a analysing your reactions: cataloging how your thighs tighten when he presses deeper, the minute twitches of your mouth when he hits a sensitive spot. finding out the most efficient way to keep your discomfort at a minimum and pleasure at maximum. he adjusts the angle of your hips by half an inch and earns a startled moan in response. his focus never breaks.

hands cradle your waist, steadying you as he moves—slow, relentless strokes that grind against your cervix with enough force to border on unbearable. the heat in your gut coils tighter. your fingers curl into his biceps, leaving half-moon indents into the skin. he hums, low in his throat, more of an pleasure than a sound of pain.

“you’re taking me so well,” tim murmurs, voice hoarse now. you don’t mean to come then—it ambushes you, heat snapping low in your belly, muscles clenching down in helpless spasms. the cry that tears out of you is sharp, guttural.

his thrusts stutter. he curses under his breath, grips your hip tighter, drives in with less gentleness and more purpose, chasing his own. when he comes, it’s with a soft groan into your throat, his cock pulsing deep inside you, body trembling with restraint even as he spills into the condom. he stays like that—doesn’t collapse, doesn’t roll off immediately. he steadies his breath, forehead pressed to yours.

aged up! DAMIAN AL-GHUL .ᐟ

he undresses without spectacle. there’s a certain… economy to his movements; efficiency without theatrics. the shirt goes first, unfastened at the cuffs, the collar peeled from his shoulders in a fluid shrug. he folds it in thirds, sets it at the foot of the bed. the belt follows, unthreaded without haste, coiled neatly atop the pressed cotton. his trousers for last.

you stare openly. his body is as disciplined as his manner—lean muscle honed into functional definition. deep, abdominal lines stark beneath skin, a hard taper from chest to the sharp vee of his hip line. a sparse trail of dark hair vanishes into the waistband of his boxers.

“stop gawking,” he says without inflection.

caught, your eyes flick away as heat crawls up your cheeks. but then you glimpse the outline straining against his briefs—thick, unmistakable. he’s not as detached as he pretends.

when he finally climbs onto the bed, he does so with the quiet grace and deliberation akin to a jaguar. knees parting yours. gaze flicking downward. anatomic appraisal. your legs fall open without instruction. his hand slide between them, deft and unerring. the pads of his fingers part you, learn the shape of your cunt with an eerie composure. already you’re wet. embarrassingly so.

he makes no comment. his middle finger glides inside, sinking to the knuckle. a second joins, curls. your breath catches, and only then does he glance up—green eyes sharp, studying every reaction. “this will hurt,” he says eventually. a plain truth, spoken without cruelty. his thumb circles your clit once, then stills. “only the first time,” he adds. “after that, you’ll crave it.”

your eyebrow arches. “confident.”

“i don’t speak in hypotheticals.” he withdraws his fingers, leaving you clenching around nothing. after a brief pause, he adds on a quieter note:

“tell me now if you don’t want this.”

“i do.”

and that’s the truth.

he strips off his briefs with one hand. his cock springs free, flushed and heavy, arcing toward his navel. it’s too much and somehow exactly what you wanted. he strokes himself—a couple of quick pumps to adjust. then he’s lining up. the blunt head drags slick between your folds, painting you with precome. the contact makes you gasp. he watches your face carefully.

“you’ll tell me if it’s too much,”

and then he pushes in. one smooth, sustained thrust.

your cunt stretches tight around him, the intrusion sudden—a burning sensation flaring up your spine. it feels impossible, every inch of him prying you open. patiently, damian waits for you to adjust before pushing in deeper. the new angle makes your vision white at the edges. “breathe,” he says, thumb stroking the hollow of your throat.

“you’re fine. you can take it.” his own breath is steady, controlled through his nose. he doesn’t move yet—waits. watches. only when your eyes flutter open again does he rear back his hips.

the first thrust draws a gasp from your chest. each thrust is slow but invasive, his pelvis slapping yours with muffled force. your hands scramble over his back, nails dragging down the lean line of his spine. he groans into the crook of your shoulder, surprised by it—one arm braced beside your head, the other sliding under your thigh to hold you in place.

“dami—nghm, ‘m clo—” you break off with a moan, pitch slurring upward. you’re already so close to the precipice, pressure building rapidly from the friction and fullness.

“i know.” he breathes, the nickname raw on his tongue. his hand slips between your bodies, long fingers finding your clit without fail. circles twice, then presses down. you come hard, breath catching sharp in your throat as your cunt tightens around him. he groans low in response, hips stuttering once against the clamp of your body. your hands lock around his shoulders, gasping into his mouth as pleasure finally overtakes you, blinding and hot.

Loki was a man who not only guarded himself but had built up fortresses - shuttered whole walls of steel and rock across the expanse of his skin. He didn’t share and he didn’t confess and he did not - would not - unzip himself and reveal all his cards or the true meat of who he was and what he was scared of -

Though most people probably knew what he was scared of - he wasn’t exactly subtle about the things he wanted or liked or dreamed up.

To try and try and fail once more. A hamster in a wheel, really - cycling and rolling until that loop would leave him either dead or out of ideas...

Which - now - if you think about that - are two very impossible outcomes since Loki had a dozen lives and a million ideas at the ready. Plots and schemes and a plan for any situation that should come his way -

But then you had floated along and Loki had found you extremely pretty and kind and unnerving and a part of him wanted to break you and the other part wanted to wrap you up and seal you to him - mine mine mine -

He does a little of both. He carefully deconstructs you through sex - dragging your ass to the edge of his bed so he can lick you and finger you and then fuck you so that you will shake and tremble so beautifully that it nearly makes him mess in his own trousers.

“Darling,” he croons - nimble fingers twisting inside you. “Be a good girl and cum for me just like that - hold your knees - spread yourself apart - oh yes - fuck - “

You do exactly as he says without a moment of doubt or hesitancy and Loki - of course - has made sure that it’s fine - that it’s okay because if he is one thing, he is a good lover and he’d never force you or surprise you or cause you any physical pain that you didn’t specifically ask for.

He’s unbearably possessive and that’s probably because everything Loki has ever longed for in his life has been cruelly snatched from him. He’d had a toy ship made of wood that Thor had accidentally crashed into and the whole thing went to dust and fragments. His father had given him a new one, but Loki had wanted the original. He spent weeks trying to repair it - shoving the splinters back together until his fingertips bled and then had been forced to just give it up.

Perhaps - it had been his first failure.

As a result, he had promptly gone to his mother and asked her to teach him magic - spells - anything - so he could fix his broken things.

You can do anything you put your mind to, my sweet boy.

He believed it.

***

He takes you to the hidden spots in Asgard - the places still scarred up from ancient battles and fallen ruins. The old remnants of past Kings. Basalt and craters and ship carcasses and the air still threaded in ghosts. Bones, too. Plenty of skeletons poking from the mud.

He liked these spaces. He liked the energy of them - the stories they told - as if Loki could press his palms to the ground and suck up all of that mythos - those legends - because Loki still wants to be the hero even though he knows he is cursed to remain the villain.

The children will hear of him and how he had brought his brother glory through his own defeat. He will be the warning in a tale - the dark son - the ruined prince.

You smile up at him - palming his cheek and he forgets.

***

He fucks you on the hard ground in some secluded spot far and away from the city itself. He’s got most of his leathers still hanging off of him - his pants bunching up beneath his ass as he ruts into you. He had been frantic with desire.

Your skirts are a mess around your waist - gauzy and patterned and the color of the milk flowers that his mother loves. He’d clean you after with a snap of his fingers, make all the dirt and mud disappear. For now - he enjoys it. He’d have you walk ahead of him just so he can see how he’d torn your dress - painted it in crumpling earth as he took you in powerful strokes.

He tilts your hips up so he can plunge deeper - his cock snapping inside you with each rough jut and your mouth parting against his insistent tongue.

“Loki,” you breathe - light and delirious - longing wrinkling your brow. Your eyes glisten with the shake of tears as he gently strokes your clit - a contrast to the aggressive way he’s fucking you.

He feels your cunt contract around his cock - squeeze him while your whole lovely body shudders as you slam into your peak.

“That’s it,” he soothes. “That’s it, my love. You get so damn tight when you cum.”

He grins down at you as your lips quirk - your eyes softening with pleasure. He wants to keep going and brush it with more heat and so he makes dainty gold cuffs appear around your wrists. A touch of kink. The chain is screwed into the ground as it pin your hands above your head and he’s slowly grinding into you as he watches your face - excited to see you enjoy this new predicament but you go cold -

Your gaze widens as you tug at the chains - your breath coming out in short, puffy bursts. Your chest heaves and then you turn away from him completely - your lips parting on something he thinks could be a sob just as your body goes limp and fuck me - he thinks because he doesn’t quite understand and he knows that he’s done something wrong.

He feels like he did as a boy when he’d say something rude or make a misstep and his parents would frown and he’d feel…he’d feel so lonely and out of place.

“Are you - oh darling - are you alright?” he murmurs with panic as he eases himself out of you. Your stare is far away and you’re trembling and Loki realizes that he’s really fucked up here - messed up spectacularly - and you’re still not answering him.

He snaps his fingers and the cuffs disappear. You pull your arms into your chest - curling around yourself and he has no idea what to do - none at all. He slides behind you and wraps himself around your waist and tugs you gently against his chest. Your shoulders are slick in cooling sweat.

He holds you like that for a while, stroking your arm as your breathing evens out and your heart begins to slow. He doesn’t enjoy feeling lost or in the dark and yet he can’t find it in him to press you. Normally, he’d disappear - run off because he felt like an idiot and the shame pained him more than anything else.

He won’t though. He owes you more than that.

The ground is cold. The sky is blindingly blue and it all seems very out of place. It blurs like a dream. The colors all wrong and too bright like neon signs on Contraxia. He stares at the back of your head - counting the strands of your hair as he smells the lavender oils that you had been dressed in.

“I’m sorry,” you finally whisper - your voice weak and thin as winter branches.

“Please don’t be,” He squeezes your hip - pressing his lips to your crown - trying to keep you relaxed for fear of you shutting down again. He feels very much like he’s calming a spooked horse which only reminds him of his great stallion Sleipnir who had also been taken from him.

You always lose the ones you love.

You always hurt them. Break them. Ruin them.

Loki bites his tongue, tries to tamper down the urge to fly from you. It would be easier - it would be so much easier -

“A long time ago,” You catch at his hand - threading your fingers through his before cradling it to your belly. “A long time ago, there was someone before you.”

And then you tell him a story.

One that he desperately does not want to hear. It spooks him and makes fury burn low in his gut before it begins to methodically tear him apart. Every new sentence and revelation - all of it slicing through him like a burnt blade. He shakes with it - embracing you tighter - nosing at the nape of your neck as you tell him the things that had been done to you and how you had been chained at one point and how those delicate gold bindings he had created had sent you into a past you had wanted to forget.

Old ghosts ravaging your memory. Haunts. Loki knows everything about spirits - knows everything about the way your history can return to you at some dreadful moment - choke you in place and drown you on dry land while you struggle to rip the fear from your throat - your mind - please i don’t want to see that - not that defeat - not that guilt - not that or that or that -

But just as he understands you - he also feels another level of agony. Someone had hurt you enough that it hadn’t left you. Someone had tried to crack you and weaken you and destroy you and here you were - still stunningly beautiful and kind and generous and all of that aimed at him. Loki Laufeyson who had nothing but his own guile to keep him warm.

Loki’s heart hammers in his chest - his skin feverish. He does not have his brother’s temper - it is a different sort of loathing - one that dips and swirls and becomes a serpent - poised to strike but always waiting waiting waiting until the opportune moment.

He craves violence.

“Where is he?” Loki growls - his vision now blind with it. “Where the fuck is he?”

His voice is cloaked in spit and ichor - fearsome and stoked in wrath.

“Dead,” you murmur - touching his wrist - reaching behind you to brush your fingers over his cheek. “He is dead. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Then I shall bring him back and slaughter him again,” he hisses with such earnestness that it startles you. You twist onto your side to stare at him - your face full of color - no longer stark and withered in fear.

You lurch forward and kiss his mouth with a sweet sort of urgency. You grip him frantically and of course, he begins to harden - begins to grind against you despite himself.

“He is nothing but a ghost now,” you murmur against the slide of Loki’s tongue. You pull away - caressing his jaw - your thumb sweeping the plane of his frosty skin. “You are the man I had wished for.”

He blinks - surprised. He had never been someone to wish for - never the hero or the one called to. He had never really been anything but a very sad and perplexing person who longed to finally win. He studies your face - your bare expression. You had given him something. Just now. You had given him something.

He drags you against him - his fingers threading through your hair as he forces your nose into the crook of his neck. Your warm velvet breath. The tickle of your lashes. Your nails digging into his shoulders as you cling to him.

Perhaps, he would try for you. Perhaps - he could fit himself into the mold of someone better.

A different girl altogether.

***

He had stolen her away. The Scarlet Witch had promised him. She would take Thor to another version of his dead lover in exchange for his muscle. He’d killed whoever she asked even if it was a kid. 

“In the end, it didn’t matter,” he explained, stalking toward her, intent on bringing her back to his reality by force if he had to. “The witch asked me to kill the Chavez girl and I did. I took out the rest of Kamar-Taj because they wouldn’t give her up.” He grinned, his teeth white against the shadowy scratch of his beard. He was beautiful and terrifying and she was out of options. 

Her back hit the wall and she fell to the floor. Every bone in her body had gone hollow. She couldn’t remember how to breathe.

Thor kept smiling even as he loomed over her. “None of that,” he tutted before snatching her wrist and tugging her to her feet.

Without another word, he swept her into his arms causing her palms to fly to his chest plate to anchor herself. He surged forward and kissed her, his tongue warm and insistent. Everything about his gestures were frantic, painted in sincere desperation.

“This was my dream” he marveled, tracing his nose across her cheek. His tone grew thick and she realized he was crying. “I didn’t think - I didn’t think -”

***

He took her back to his world. Months went by. 

She found him alone, whispering to nothing. His back hunched, his cape blood-red as it flowed over the marble floor. His golden head was bent forward, his palms flat atop a stone table. A book was open.

“Who are you talking to?” she asked. He turned slowly, his expression flat except for his eyes that burned like charred wood. 

“No one, my love,” he replied mechanically despite the quiver in his fingers. She swallowed the distinct lump that had formed in her throat before walking towards him.

“What did you give them, Thor?” She touched his cheek, his jaw. He leaned into it.  “What did they take from you?”

He shot up. His tone fierce.

“Nothing I wasn’t willing to give.” He gripped her waist, pulling her hard against his body. “Nothing I wouldn’t give again.” He lowered his face to press a kiss to her temple. “I’d hand everything over.” He kissed her mouth. “Always and always.” His enormous hand cradled the back of her skull as he forced her closer. His tongue was slippery behind her teeth. Instinctively, she responded to him, arching into his touch. The muscle of his thigh rubbed between her legs and she clung to him like a cat in heat. 

She loved even this one. 

***

He grew rougher. Nothing she couldn’t handle, but his infatuation blinded him. He often spoke of the other her.

He’d be inside her, fucking her. “You told me…she told me it wasn’t my fault,” he’d mutter as he drove deep, hitting the center of her until she shattered. “There was blood…I tried to kiss her…smeared it everywhere…Hulk…Banner pulled me away.”

He could turn on a dime, grieving and then hardening. His fragility twisting into something sharp and dangerous. His gaze suddenly hungry as it lingered on her face. 

“Open your mouth,” he growled as he held the hinge of her jaw firmly. “Open it.”

She did, her fingers twisted in his hair, her thighs spread as he rutted against her. He spat and she took it just as she had taken everything he had given her.

“Good girl,” he crooned with another violent snap of his hips, so bruising it punched her up the bed. 

***

Thor doled out pain. He tortured by a thousand cuts rather than utilize his old, more humane ways. He no longer bludgeoned. No more quick smashes of his hammer and it’d be done. He enjoyed causing violence.

Together, they fought wars. He intended to conquer, continue where Hela and Odin had left off. 

“I can protect us this way,” he explained, scanning the many maps that revealed the enemy army’s location. He stood over the great table as his advisors encircled him. They were bright with excitement, fully in favor of battle. Of course, Thor removed anyone who disagreed with him.  “No one will touch our Asgard again. No one will dare come for us once I burn it all.”

No mercy. No warnings. He decimated with the force of a nuke. 

***

At one point, she was nearly taken out. It was stupid. A blade nicked her. It skimmed her shoulder and cut her deep, but hardly fatal. Thor was so distraught that he scooped her up and carried her back to his war room. He called for the man who had wounded her to be brought to him.

“I can’t lose you,” he snarled into her hair. “I can’t.”

She tried to tell him she was fine, but she knew. She knew what he was about to do because he had done it before. 

Anyone who had hurt her or insulted her? He broke them.

***

He smiled as blood stained his hands to the elbow. He cupped the man’s insides in his palms. “You came for her,” he accused as he weighed the entrails, his blue-black gaze slanted toward the dying man who was no longer a man at all. Thor’s voice remained at a soft, low volume. He threatened quietly. He taunted in a breath - a husk - a secret. 

Thor gestured to her over his shoulder. “You tried to take her from me.”

The bound man’s eyes were flat and glassy. His chest was still and it was obvious that he was no longer there. Thor frowned. “Pity,” he mumbled before turning his head to look at her. His appraisal was filled with the entirety of his adoration.  His love burned brighter than an exploding star and it left her aching. 

Thor’s stare left her face to rest on her shoulder. The wound still bled, but it was only a trickle. Regardless, he glared at it, transfixed. He swallowed thickly. 

“Thor,” she whispered, her tone full of sadness. 

He made a distraught noise of protest. The silence seemed to say:

Don’t say a word. Don’t be sad.  I love you. I love you. Everything I do is for you. Don’t you see?

“Come here,” he finally ordered as he dropped the bloody mess and crooked a red-slick finger at her. Wordlessly, she went, her obedience visibly pleasing him. 

She stood as he sat and the positions allowed him to wrap his arms around her waist and rest his cheek against her belly. It was full of a strange intimacy that surpassed anything they’d shared before. As she petted his scalp and the nape of his neck, the dead man gaped at her. She tried to focus on Thor, concentrating on not throwing up her breakfast. 

“You smell good,” he praised. 

“So do you,” she replied automatically. She swore she could hear him purr. 

“Do more,” he whispered. “I want to feel you.”

She acquiesced, skating her nails under his braided hair. He shuddered, his hands tightening on her hips. She could feel the heat of him. She could sense his desire and she didn’t know if it was the man he’d tortured for her or if it was the battle itself, but it all seemed to churn his lust. Maybe, he simply got off on protecting her because it seemed like she had turned into a piece of him. She was an extra limb or organ. A hurt against her was a hurt against him and - 

“The floor,” he said huskily. “Let me take you here. Will you let me?”

*** 

Everyone could see if they looked. She was certain they could hear. 

They were completely naked. Their armor torn and scattered around the tent. He needed all of her. He needed her bare. I want your sweat. I want your blood. I want.

His giant body moved over hers, his arms braced by her head. He bit into her shoulder, his tongue sliding along the wound that bled freely. He wasn’t careful as he entered her, hips flexing until he was fully seated. 

“Let me in,” he demanded. She turned away and he caught her chin between his thick fingers. “Look at me.” His expression softened. “Am I so unworthy now, my love?”

No. She loved him. She even loved the monster he had become. 

She shook her head and his mouth curled. “I want to be worthy of you,” he confessed. “I want everything.”

She felt like she was spread out on a table. He was examining her, cutting her open with every spear of his cock. There was still a dark arrogance in his features. A smugness from his youth that was now even more emphasized due to the Darkhold. Every humble lesson he had learned had fled.

He hitched her knee higher, angled her pelvis in a way that made him too big and hot. It stretched her, split her in two. He began to rock forward, easing himself deeper as her cunt began to inevitably warm for him. 

She didn’t want it this way in this tent. She didn’t, but it felt so good. She whimpered and it seemed to drive him on, make him swell. His thrusts became more savage, scraping her naked ass across the dirt floor. He stroked the back of her head possessively, her nails dug into his biceps. 

“We can’t do this,” she hissed as he openly watched her, his eyes boring straight into hers. “It’s wrong.”

It was the dead body. It was the desecration. It was his army only feet away. He frowned, thumb brushing over her lips. 

“Funny,” he drawled as he ground his hips between her thighs. “I can hear your heart.” He was buried to the hilt and she couldn’t catch her breath. He delivered another sharp stroke that forced a gasp from her chest. “You’re lying, little queen. You’re cunt won’t let me go.”

At his words, her body clenched. The pleasure throbbed and pulsed until she was coming on his cock. She cried out and he smiled. There was blood on his cheeks and his forehead. She could count his lashes. 

It was absurd. The whole of it. 

“We’re so messed up,” she laughed as he continued to fuck her. Her tone was caustic. Bitter. It burned sour in the air and Thor cocked his head.

“Such a fighter,” he mused as he cradled her face between his hands, the snapping of his hips had begun to slow to long, lazy strokes. It felt like he was savoring her pussy, dragging his length in such a way that it absorbed her essence. “No more guilt. I could make sure of it.”

She closed her eyes. She knew what that meant. 

Thor had been ripe for the taking just as Wanda had been. Two enormously powerful beings who were drowning in grief and vulnerability. Perfect specimens for that damned book. 

It was propped up in the corner of his tent. She could hear the flutter of its pages. There were distinct smells on the wind: nightshade, rot, cloves, apples.

He drew himself out until only the tip remained inside her. He braced his weight, the muscles in his abdomen spasming as he regarded her with utter hope. “Say yes,” he urged before he began to sink back into her wet heat inch by inch. “Say yes and you will never worry again.” She bloomed around him, accommodating his size. He’d already branded her. Her body would know him in the dark, begging for Thor to sate the raw, open wound of it.

“Let me make you feel good. It’s all I want…to please you…to love you.”

She was his in all the ways it counted. She couldn’t recall who she’d been before. She no longer knew how to refuse him. 

Okay.

The walls shook with incessant pounding on the front door to your apartment. Giant, booming knocks reverberated so loudly that you were shaken awake from a dead sleep.

2:17 am

The blaring light of your phone screen blinded your barely awake eyes.

Who the fuck was waking you up at this hour?

Bare feet met cold hardwood floor on wobbly legs, a robe haphazardly draped over a tank top and shorts. Your fingers ineffectively smoothed down some bed head before you flung open the door, ready to cuss out whoever was behind it.

But you didn’t get a single syllable out.

Logan.

The Wolverine.

He looked like shit. Mud, sticks, and leaves smeared across every bit of open skin. His X-Men uniform ripped in so many places you marveled how his ass wasn’t hanging out of it. Dried blood laced the frayed edges of the fabric, but you knew there’d be no scars. Luckily Logan had a convenient mutation for someone who looked like he fought a bear in the woods tonight.

You opened your mouth to tell him as much, but Logan grabbed your face in one hand and slammed his mouth to yours. He inhaled through his nose, breathing in your scent like an animal, and growled, a low, threatening sound from deep in his chest. His grip on your chin and cheeks almost hurt, and he only released you just enough to let you awkwardly gasp for air.

Oh fuck. Not again.

You tried to speak again but Logan grabbed your waist and suddenly you were staring at the wooden grain of the floorboards, followed by a door slam that rattled the dishes in the cupboard. Heavy feet carried you through your home, rapidly moving towards the bedroom, until you were unceremoniously dumped onto the mattress. The world spun again and you found yourself blinking at the overhead light in the ceiling.

It took you several seconds to get air back into your lungs, in which time, Logan had already ripped off what was left of his muddied uniform.

Goddamnit, he’s gonna leave a fucking mess.

Your mind barely had time to form the thought when you felt cold, hard metal slide along your stomach. Too shocked to speak, you froze in place as Logan sliced off your robe and pajamas until you were completely bare.

“Lo—ohhh!” Your words were cut off by Logan’s rough palm cupping your entire pussy. He was grinding down hard against your clit, followed by the impatient stroke of a hot, wet tongue. Was that whine coming from you? Automatically, your knees had slid up and fallen to the side to give him proper access.

When was the last time Logan was here? A month? Two? You couldn’t seem to remember a thing when Logan was sending electrifying tingles through your abdomen with every movement of his hand and tongue. Regardless, your body knew his touch before your thoughts could catch up. In fact, any question had died on your lips the moment he grabbed your face and kissed you at the front door.

Fingers.

God, his thick fingers found their way into you and you could feel all your muscles clench tightly around him. Pulsing, squeezing, dripping wet. Yes—that’s the spot—he was pushing upwards now, pressing into your soft walls with every motion.

Logan knew exactly how to please you until you were his pliant, messy girl instead of the tough shit you actually were. You craned your neck, but you couldn’t see his face because he was sandwiched between your legs. As he fingered and sucked you dry, Logan inhaled your smell again, like a predator and you were his all too-willing prey.

“Fuck!” You blurted out, as your body seized up and you squirted all over his hand. The orgasm had come without warning, but Logan was ready. He promptly removed his digits and lapped up his own palm, then buried his face in your cunt. Your view was exclusively two pointed tufts of black hair, bobbing up and down as Logan drank you up. Without meaning to, you went limp, head falling back to the pillows. You could feel Logan’s scruff chaffing your thighs and pussy lips, but you had no energy to complain.

Goddamnit.

What were you going to say again?

A shadow crossed your vision, blocking out the light. Logan's handsome face slowly came into your view as you blinked rapidly, trying to regain focus.

“Logan…” your voice came out in a whisper. Since when did you ever speak to him this gently? Most of your relationship consisted of you yelling, complaining, or swearing at the man. He was an asshole to you and a dick to everyone; reckless and selfish on the field, never bothered to stick to any sort of plan. Working with him was an absolute nightmare.

But he loved fucking you stupid any chance he could get. Somehow all that attitude and rage channeled into a heated night of passion that you could never take back. He finally got you to shut up and you melted into a needy, whiny, bratty princess the second he shoved his dick into you a year ago. And you hated that about him.

It’s why you transferred to another team, and moved out of the mansion, and refused to answer his calls. But he knew where you lived. And he still came over sometimes to fuck you into next week. Unannounced of course.

And you let him.

Because Logan was the motherfucking Wolverine. No one else ever came close to what Logan could do to you. Throwing you around like a ragdoll? Diving face first into your dripping cunt? Then making you cum without saying a single word?

His face was cast in shadow, but you could see his eyes. Pupils dilated, glinting with primal need. It was in these moments that you knew he was more beast than man. More Wolverine than X-men.

More himself than he ever was in that stupid Kevlar suit he hated wearing. More than tracking down lost mutants in the middle of nowhere. More than even picking fights in a cage and leaving bad guys bleeding out of 6 holes.

What Logan wanted—no, needed was the adrenaline rush. Yes, he could get a rush from speeding on his bike in the pitch-black night, or letting his claws run wild and fuck up some pathetic soldier until he was sliced into pieces.

What most people didn’t know was that The Wolverine’s preferred way of getting off wasn’t fighting. It was sex. Specifically, fucking his favorite girl till she couldn’t form a coherent thought. Especially that one hot-head who loved to boss him around. Now, that just turned him on even more because he knew how quickly he could dissolve all that attitude in minutes.

All it took was a few well-placed fingers and the first explosive orgasm from his not-so little dick and he knew—you both knew— this was gonna happen again.

So yeah. You knew it was Logan pounding on your door at 2 am. You knew what he wanted. You knew the adrenaline rush he was chasing.

And you were gonna give it to him.

Why?

Because it’s fucking delicious.

Logan’s cock brushed up against your belly as he held himself over you, eyes searching your face wildly. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, or if there was any thought at all. All you knew was that somehow, your hand was wrapped around his dick and it was so ridiculously huge. And hot. The man was drenched in sweat, heat coming off him in waves and he hadn’t even fucked you yet. Warm breath fanned over your face as he pressed sloppy kisses onto you, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure just from you holding his cock.

Your fingers traced the veins in his dick, and god, he was so heavy. You had no idea how he ever fit into you, but somehow, he always did. Your other hand reached between your bodies and you stroked his lower abs, following the coarse hair until you felt his leathery sack, filled with cum that was sure to make a massive mess all over your sheets tonight. Logan grunted above you, biting into your shoulder, and you yelped in pain but your fingers kept stroking, feeling, touching.

“Logan, can I…?” You began to ask. You wet your lips with the tip of your tongue which earned you a sharp inhale, eyes locked onto the small movement. If only he wasn’t trapping his body on top of you, then you could just have a little taste.

But Logan drew himself up and grabbed your wrists, throwing them above your head. You were treated to an unobstructed view of his marvelous body. All thick muscle, wiry hair, and heavy breathing. His nostrils were flared, in what could have been anger. But you knew better. He was ready to fuck you and he wasn’t gonna accept anything but the delicious vice-grip of your pussy.

“Ohhhhhh!”

Logan gripped your thigh with his free hand and violently shoved his cock in one stroke. The scream that ripped through your throat must have been ear-splitting, but Logan was completely unbothered. The only reaction you saw was a deepened furrow in his permanently pinched brows. Then his fingers dug into the meat of your thighs and his hips jackhammered into your body, at an almost painful pace. But Logan was an expert when it came to your body. For anybody else, this would have broken them.

For you? He was hitting so deep you were clawing at his chiseled back like a feral cat. Only you were mewling, begging in mind-numbing pleasure. Every stroke sent shocks of sensation through every nerve.

“P-pleaaaase! Logan! Don’t stop!”

You fell into a rhythm, Logan’s deep grunts punctuated by the filthy slap of skin on skin as he slammed you into the mattress. Knees bent, 45 degrees, arms wrapped in a chokehold. His cock thrust into you without stopping, and it was all you could do to keep your eyes open. You wanted to watch the pleasure begin to contort the face of your lover. You wanted to see the effect you had on him.

His uneven breath hissed through clenched teeth. A vein throbbed from the middle of his forehead. His feral eyes tried, and failed to focus on your face and instead found your open, pouted lips. You could feel him almost slip from how much your juices, intermingled with sweat, made a mess between your overheated bodies.

“F-fuck! Lo! It’s so-oo g-good!” Your voice faltered with every bounce.

Suddenly, Logan bottomed out and he held himself still, crying out in a deafening roar. You flinched hard when his fists punched into the bed, right next to your face. Time seemed to slow down as you followed the silent motion happening in your peripheral.

Shiny, silver metal. Extending, slicing, ripping through his skin to the fabric. A slight sting on your cheek registered through the haze of your arousal. Arousal soon replaced by the slither of thrill and a touch of fear.

Did he just…?

A new level of excitement unlocked, you turned back to look at Logan. Could he feel the deep throbbing, the overwhelming desire you had for him? He was staring at his extended claws, then the cut on your face, then back to your expectant eyes. Without missing a beat, Logan leaned forward, licked up the blood sliding down your skin, and pumped into you so hard and fast it made your head spin.

You didn’t think it was possible but Logan hit overdrive until your mind had been completely wiped clean of thought. Through the static, you heard a distant yell and your own sharp gasp as Logan’s hips stuttered, slamming into you harshly.

Once.

Twice.

A third time—and that was enough. Stars burst across your vision and a gush of your orgasm intermingled with his spend. What was mere seconds felt like an endless wave of pure ecstasy in the deepest parts of your being. You could have been floating, weightless, swept up in passion and pleasure. Did you even make a sound? Or simply a silent gasp as the orgasm flooded your senses? Only Logan could make you could cum like this. Only Logan could make sex feel like a literal drug. And you knew Logan was addicted to your body—no, to you. As much as you tried to resist, you knew you wanted him, craved him. More than you’d ever admit to him.

The sudden emptiness of Logan pulling out brought you back to reality. His weight disappeared from on top of your body and your eyes shot open at the sound of a crash.

The hell?

“Logan!” Your voice came out raspy, and utterly useless because Logan was roaring around your bedroom like a madman. His claws fully extended, splintering furniture, the wallpaper, the door. His bulging arms were fully tensed up until you could see every sinew, every muscle, even though he tore through everything like it was jello.

“Stop it! What the fuck are you doing?!” You scrambled off the bed and shouted at his broad back. Logan whirled back to face you and you barely had the reflex to jump back from his extended claws. For the first time in a long time, you feel the cold shiver of fear down your back. He thought fucking you would help, and it did, but for some reason he couldn’t come down. His adrenaline was still pumping like he hadn’t gotten it out of his system, and now the alarming destruction clearly pointed to bigger issues. Rage was pouring off of him like a waterfall as if it had been building all night and had finally burst free.

Logan would never hurt me, right?

Before you had time to entertain that line of thinking, Logan retracted his claws and pulled you against his chest, crushing any air out of your lungs. He exhaled heavily and growled into your ear the first actual words he’d spoken to you all night.

“I’ll fix this later.”

Then he released you into a heap on the floor as you gasped and spluttered.

“L-Logan! The fuck does that mean?!”

You could feel the vibrations of his stomping and then another wall-shaking slam of the door. He left you there, sore, naked, thoroughly fucked, and absolutely whiplashed from his beastly behavior.

God.

What a fucking dick.

Rating: R (Dark Elements!)

Theme Song: ALWAYS BEEN YOU by Chris Grey

Loki’s expression slowly faded to expressionless. Neither of you moved, not even tensed. You knew he had his suspicions during his little investigation, but you hardly expected this reaction. 

His brows furrowed ever so slightly, eyes wanting to roam but for some reason, they stayed studying your face in particular. Like you were some type of creature.. 

‘’You smell.. Not of.. Midgardian..’’ Loki said slowly, more so thinking out loud while you suddenly became more and more self conscious by the minute.

‘’Vanir..’’ you corrected quietly.

‘’You're from Vanaheim..’’ Loki’s brows raised as he now tipped his head down briefly to look over you, almost as if checking you were indeed what you claimed. He could already tell when you were lying so there was really no need. His eyes then met yours and a brow raised questionably. ‘’Why come here?”

It was a valid point. Asgard and Vanaheim have been allies pretty much forever, coming in aid in terms of war and even Hogun- one of the warrior’s three resides from there- quite the challenge in the least whenever you stumbled upon his rare presence. Your home was peaceful, not at all as intense as the other realms aside from a few ruffians that would turn up once in a great while, and you weren't at all prepared for the question because you’ve spent so long practicing your speech to stay- particularly from your parents if they were to ever find you.

‘’I.. wished for a better life.. I found myself unhappy there.. With my family.’’

Loki tilted his head ever so slightly as he watched you, almost as if he were looking at you for the very first time- or if you were something entirely different looking, regardless if your people and his shared similar features. ‘’So you’ve left to become a servant?” he asked almost doubtfully, but your answers passed off enough as the truth.

‘’..we pick our battles.. And our headaches. It normally always stems from the family..’’ you said quietly, in truth, trying to hint to his own relations to perhaps find some sort of softness to his attitude. 

You were not going to ever say that he and you were the same, but if he could relate, then maybe some mercy from his actions could be perhaps persuaded. However, his brows were now furrowing with a more questionable look. ‘’That is why you wore your floral scent?”

‘’I wish not to return.. And have grown accustomed to this world.. So i hide- as best as i could..’’ you admitted and you bit your bottom lip, something his eyes did not miss while your heart began to beat faster. ‘’..i meant no ill will towards your mother.. My actions were purely towards avoiding you alone..’’

There was almost amusement on his face when his eyes flicked to yours. ‘’You think yourself to be banished? Imprisoned or punished?” 

You swallowed thickly, hating all of the above and almost forgot your current circumstances while your gaze slowly began to look down his naked form. You could only not see his lower half because you were currently sitting on it- in an uncomfortable wet dress- and were beginning to get the need to move. Moving your eyes back up to his, you were almost startled to find them waiting for you, a softness and a smirk all at the same time on his features.

‘’I might have a proposal for you.’’ 

Your heart jumped a little, almost finding his expression of anything other than hate more startling than his proposition. Your body also took this opportunity to shiver and your cheeks reddened. ‘’..can i get out first?”

‘’No.’’

You frowned and shifted on your knees anyway, causing both his hands now to go back into the water and to your hips, his face threatening the same frown while you flinched a little from the splash. ‘’stay. ‘’

Huffing a little, you held your tongue and tried not to focus on the fact that he was back to pressing you down onto his lap, the bulge still being very much there while you will yourself to stay still. Wanting to cross your arms, you kept them on his chest- too afraid to really move anything else of yours- and hoped he’d remain in his okay mood. ‘’..what is your proposal?”

‘’I keep your secret, and you become my willing, devoted chambermaid.’’ 

‘’..aren't i already.. Prepared for that?” you asked with hesitance, under the impression you already were his chambermaid, but by the way his eyes now dipped down to gaze at your body, you knew you had it all wrong.

‘’You don’t understand.. I want your complete and utter devotion. No glares, no idle gossip, not a muscle in your body that would dare to tense and fight me.’’

Your hands now did rise from his chest and slowly came to your own, covering up what was already covered but you could see him mesmerized by the way your soaking dress hugged your body. ‘’..f-fight you?”

Loki’s hand slowly rose out of the water, his body now leaning forward while his eyes rose to gaze into yours, that hand now stroking it’s fingertips along your back before you could feel him play with the strings of your dress. ‘’You claim to be not a virgin, yes?”

Your eyes widened in complete shock, as did your mouth gap open while you waited for him to admit he was jesting. Why in the nine realms would he- no.. nonono- this couldn't be true.. You hated him! And he hated you! 

‘’You want to..’’

‘’Fuck you Y/N, yes. Allow you to perform your duties as well, in exchange that i keep your secret that you are not one of us.’’ 

The last part was a hard blow, as cruel as the reality was. This whole conversation had your cheeks reddening and your hands now covering them while your heart began to beat.

‘’Wha- of all the cruelties you’ve bestowed my prince.. This.. this has to be the-’’

‘’You are quite under the influence and I shall give you the night to think about it. It has been quite a long day for you after all.’’ Loki smirked before his hands gripped both your hips, lifting you up before tossing you back into the tub off of him, pulling a yelp from your lips before you were under water again. 

The audacity! You sputtered and flailed in your dress’s folds, finally getting to your knees again and rising up with a few coughs before your eyes zoomed in on what was right in front of you. You nearly yelped and jumped back from Loki who was now standing, with no shame and everything at full attention. 

You could hardly look as he gave you a smirk and you saw him reach for his cock, making you cover your eyes with your hands while hearing the sound of sliding flesh before a chuckle followed.

‘’Do let me know if you have your answer before I find myself asking again. Now dry off, we’ll wrap up this evening with a few final notes.’’

You did not uncover your eyes until you heard him step out of the water and begin drying himself. Your body was shaky and flustered, and as he had mentioned, your mind was getting a bit dizzy the more you moved- though you didn't think it was necessarily booze alone. 

You kept your eyes averted, crawling to the edge of the tub before you gripped its edge, pulling you to your feet while your other hand coped with your dress. This was difficult and you began having those cursed thoughts again of damning him before you noticed a towel being held in front of you.

Raising your eyes, Loki gave you a rather dull look, his own towel wrapped around his waist and holding on by a prayer. You hesitated before taking the towel, clearing your throat before giving him a small nod.

‘’Thank you..’

‘’Do come out with it on, i shall have no soaked garments getting into my floor.’’ 

Your eyes widened and looked at him, just catching his smirk over his shoulder before he left the bathroom.

~

You hated this.. All of this.. Hated him- he was using your true self against you? As blackmail?? ‘Have sex and be my servant and I won't tell a soul’ crap. Seriously?? 

The whole time you were drying off- having had to abandon your dress and several times glanced at the door to make sure he wasn't here, you were debating about going home. 

Prince Del wasnt far off from Loki, but you knew he’d definitely want to fuck you- amongst many others- in your terms of marrying him. Ironically that was probably Loki too, but scrubbing floors all day also had you thinking it might be way better than watching an idiot destroy your realm from his.. Well, idiocracy. 

Slowly walking into the bedroom with your hands clutching tightly to your towel around you, your eyes slowly raised to find Loki moving about his lounge area before he paused when his eyes fell upon you.

‘’So, this is what I have to look forward too?” he smirked, clearly eyeing the knot in the towel.

‘’I still haven't made a decision..’’ you reminded, nervous while your feet now walked upon the soft carpet that sunk in about half and inch. 

‘’No need darling, i’ve made it for you.’’ he shrugged, as if it were a simple matter while your eyes rounded for the hundredth time and paused where you stood. ‘’O-oh?” its barely been ten minutes!

‘’I’ve been thinking quite deeply about your friend Delilah. Quite the interesting one, she is, isn't she? Especially with that loose tongue of hers.’’ he sighed simply, shaking his head while he rounded his table and began approaching you, hands clasped behind his back.

The towel had been abandoned, now covering his body was his sleepwear that consisted of silk-like material in the shade of black, in the form of sleep pants. He was shirtless, something you hardly could get used to without your eyes magnetizing to the sight before he’d catch you with a smirk. Now, you hardly wanted to look at any of him while he stood here mentioning your friend as if it were a threat formulating on his tongue.

‘’She spent a good while on Midgard sire.. Her habit is still being trained out..’’ you said carefully, eyes lowered as if your servant submission would ease his brewing cruelty.

‘’Is that so? Even if you partake in her idle gossip? At times even.. Start it?” 

His hints made your fingers tighten and a glare returned to your features. What was he playing at? Somehow, you already knew where this was going.

‘’..whatever punishment you may bestow, give it onto me as a failure for training her..’’

‘’Mmm i have a much better idea that might actually help spur on your success in your new position.’’ Loki shook his head and stepped closer, making your eyes raise to look up at him. ‘’Any time I disapprove of something you do, she shall be the first to be punished.’’ he whispered before he walked past you as if the conversation was wrapped up.

Your body tensed, anger washing over you while you fought the urge to attack him. This is exactly what you meant by his cruelties! How Asgard would fall if this is how he would rule! Your emotions had you spinning on your heel to face him and you nearly stuck daggers in his back with the way your eyes pierced at him. 

‘’Haven't you not enough flesh at your disposal?? Why threaten her to get to me??’’

‘’Three years of service has not presented you as very promising Y/N. I wish to make sure you, being my chambermaid will form you to perform absolutely perfectly if the cost is great. Call it.. Motivation.’’ Loki smirked and turned slowly around to face you while your hands were now at your sides in fists.

‘’I never wanted to be your chambermaid!”

Loki gave a simple shrug, his calmness making you even more angry while you seethed. ‘’If you don’t wish to be my chambermaid, so be it. I shall merely pick Delilah, and in your place, fuck her everynight whether she’s willing or not.’’ Loki’s eyes then feasted upon your expression in a much darker form. ‘’How do you feel about being tied up? Forced to watch while we indulge in the pleasures you could have very much enjoyed?”

You took a step back as your stomach twisted. ‘’You’re disgusting..’’

‘’I believe your previous term was ‘pig’, was it not?” Loki said simply, narrowing his eyes at you from the sere reminder and nodded towards you. ‘’Perhaps i find joy in bringing forth pain caused by your wrongdoings, if you so wish to paint the picture of me that way, maybe i’ll be just that.’’

He was clearly still mad about that and hated every moment you looked upon him like he was one. Was he trying to remedy that? Clear his name? Convince you your words were unwise and clearly untrue? But wasn't it? He was literally threatening you with your friend just to have you choose him. This wasn't about motivation.. This was about submission.

You swallowed and looked up at him carefully, holding your tongue as if you were to prove to him that you could obey.. That he could spare her..

“You would do anything to protect her huh, because she promised to protect you from me hmm?” Loki asked, looking over you as if he could already see the truth and scoffed. ‘’Don’t think I haven't heard her words either. Her truth is spurred by your influence, and it might be better to purge it’s core and remove you from her life entirely.’’

Your eyes widened and you took a step back. ‘’What are you-’’

‘’Choosing me will keep you both on separate wings. You won’t be able to see her again, but rest assured you will spare her from a lifetime of misery following your blind rebellions. If it starts with words, actions would soon follow.’’ he smirked and looked you up and down. ‘’The wiser thing to do would be removing you entirely.’’

You narrowed your eyes. ‘’You get rid of me, I’ll take her with me..’’

Loki merely laughed, throwing his head back and saw you nothing more than a servant, not even as a person protecting your friend. Gods if he knew the power you had.. What you could have..

‘’Taking her would merely result in making you look like you are trying to ransom your own way out from being punished as a trespasser. You’d be at Asgard’s mercy. However.. If you care for her so much..’’ he leaned in closer, eyes deadly but that smirk remained. ‘’I could always have you both..’’

Your eyes squeezed shut, taking in deep breaths to contain your rage while dealing with what has already been bottled up these past few years. He knew something was off by the start, but chose entertainment over investigation for three years. Washing off your scent had been the turning point, and now you feared what new Hel awaited you- no.. what awaited Delilah because of what happened.. 

Unclenching your fists, you glared up at the prince who towered over you as if he had already won. You wanted nothing to do with him- not his touch, nor to service anything else involving the god of mischief. Yet if it were to save your friend, by giving up your body in the process.. Better you than her.

‘’..fine..’’ 

Loki’s smirk couldn't get any clearer as he bent down, catching your chin between his thumb and pointing finger. ‘’Is that how you answer your prince?” 

Gods you aimed to claw at him the next opportunity. Swallowing your words that would come out in a less pretty manner, you drew in a breath and looked up at him. ‘’..i accept your proposal my lord..’’ He gave you an indifferent look and you added, ‘’to contain my secret of who i am, in exchange for my.. Body and devotion.’’

The words came off like bile on your tongue.

Loki smugly looked you over, as if still debating if he even wanted you before his hand traveled from your chin, to your cheek. ‘’Good girl. Now let's start with that being the last glare you’ll ever give me, yes?” he taunted and went as far as patting your cheek twice.

Before you could work up the nerve to actually slap him, you suddenly began seeing your vision begin to tunnel, followed by the feeling of falling backwards. 

Perhaps it was the alcohol, maybe just all the events that had been non stop occurring- maybe both. Either way, if passing out was the way to finally get a break, you had no choice right now and were completely fine with that.

ON AO3 :D

You couldn't help but cringe whenever the cuffs got your attention, reminding you just how messed up the organization you worked for could be. 

Loki had been doing tremendously well since New York- showing progress in his ‘rehabilitation’ by working on being better. He's gained mutual trust amongst the tower and the two of you had become close friends- and yet, car rides always had that stupid rule that handcuffs were required. 

‘’It's okay Y/N.’’ His gentle voice got your attention as you looked over, meeting his reassuring eyes that he was neither in pain nor discomfort while taking up the back of the van. ‘’It’s not so bad.’’

You gave a small sigh, wishing honestly you were allowed to at least sit beside him- sitting sideways against the van’s walls wasn't exactly limo tolerable. ‘’Are they tight?” you nodded to indicate the cuffs, wanting to check anyway since he now and again would rotate his wrists in his lap.

‘’I meant the company.’’ he teased and you couldn't help but laugh, especially when the two of you noticed a dry look coming from over Steve’s shoulder who had taken the front passenger seat. 

‘’Its not my decision either Loki, you know Fury calls the shots.’’

‘’And yet how much is Stark able to get away with?” Loki challenged, watching how Roger’s shoulders slumped at how right the statement was.

‘’I'll talk to him again, we’ve already pushed a bit of your leaveway and-’’

‘’He deserves it Steve, he’s helped so much on our recent assignments.’’ you pointed out, crossing your arms defensively as if you were the one being talked about but Loki shook his head. 

‘’Worry not about me Y/N, ill be free soon enough.’’

The statement had Steve whip his head around with a sharp look, only to find what Loki called his ‘kidding face’- which most of you all were still trying to recognize. 

‘’Sir, there seems to be a call coming in.’’ The agent in charge of driving SHIELD’s transport van got Roger’s attention. The screen lit up Stark’s face then who seemed to be semi distracted with loud interference behind him.

‘’Speaking of.’’ Loki mumbled.

‘’Gonna need you guys to make a pit stop-’’

‘’We’re not stopping at another coffee shop Stark.’’ you noted dryly before Tony shook his head.

‘’Different this time- we have more agents than anticipated and gonna need a little help, I saw you’re just about to pass the block.’’

‘’Romanoff isn't with you?” Steve raised a brow and already gave the driver a look that told him to change their route and head over.

‘’She is but she’s heading towards the root of the problem so i’m covering the outskirts which.. Seems to be scattering faster than I can keep up,’’ Tony cleared his throat, clearly having a hard time admitting such a thing but he did have a power problem back at home when Thor thought it was a good idea to ‘bring the toaster back to life’ and interrupted most of the repairs Tony was working on.

‘’We’ll head there right away and join you.’’ Steve nodded and Tony hung up. 

You just began to shift in your seat, feeling the familiar itch that stirred up whenever you were about to get the adrenaline rush but by the look on Steve’s face, you deflated quickly. 

‘’Were gonna have to stay here with Loki.’’

You raised a brow and the two of you glanced at each other before you returned back to Steve. ‘’Why can't we both help?”

‘’We’ll have enough coverage and you know Fury still hasn't found out about most of the cases where he’s helped,’’ Steve sighed and looked over at Loki. ‘’If you want those off sooner, we’re going to have to start following the rules.’’

‘’Fine by me, i quite enjoy watching the struggle from in here.’’ Loki shrugged with a smirk and would have relaxed his hands behind his head if he were able too. 

‘’Please Y/N,’’ Steve pressed, trying to suppress his irritation from the god- as if we needed another sarcastic smart ass on the team (his words, not yours) before you gave him a little nod.

‘’No problem.’’ you promised before glancing out the window to already find the van pulling up at the scene in question. 

In all actuality, you didn't mind staying with Loki.. if it didn’t make you hella nervous. The two of you have grown quite close in your friendship, the way people would flirt playfully but hinting on the borderline of meaning it but not confirming it. Unless you were reading the room wrong, you were getting small hints that Loki kinda liked you.. The way you liked him. You never were this nervous from the beginning.. But he’s begun quite recently to watch you intently, fondly, even speak in a way where it was almost.. Seductive? 

‘’Y/N.’’

‘’Huh?” you snapped out of it and looked over at Steve who was already fixing his face mask with the door half way open.

‘’Call if you need anything,’’ he warned, knowing he was also telling you to stay focused while you sheepishly gave him a thumbs up before he and the agent exited the car. 

As soon as the van’s doors closed, you were left in an almost loud silence, the kind where it was almost awkward and you thought that even the smallest shift would be too loud.

‘’You are nervous today.’’

Loki’s voice noticeably changed, that seductive tone he often took when the two of you were alone together. It sent that shiver right down your spine and although he still stayed sat in the backseat, somehow it almost sounded like he spoke right up against your ear.

‘’I feel like.. Their on to us..’’ you said quietly and turned your head to look at him, seeing how his eyes already waited for yours.

He smiled knowingly and lounged more in his seat, looking like he wished to cross his arms if he could. ‘’I ceased at my flirtations upon request love, anything else they pick up on could be merely out of assumptions.’’

You raised a brow accusingly at him with the faintest redness to your cheeks. ‘’I’m pretty sure they saw you touch my ass when I got into the van first.’’

Loki smirked. ‘’Merely accidental, I wished you not to misstep when entering but have to work with my.. Limitations.’’ he sighed and shifted his hands to make the cuffs known.

You weren't buying it for a second but allowed yourself to look at the cuffs finally with an honest expression, one filled with concern and longing to have them off. ‘’Seriously though.. Do they hurt?”

Loki’s expression became unreadable as he watched you, giving the faintest nod up to gesture for you to come over. ‘’Come investigate them.’’

‘’Loki..’’ you warned, giving him a small look while he gave you an indifferent one.

‘’No tricks darling, this is hardly the right place to take advantage of you.’’ he said innocently and your cheeks heated up.

‘’And here I thought you devoted yourself to being the perfect gentleman,’’ you quietly teased but nevertheless, slowly stood up and made your way over to where he was, having to hunch a little in the not so tall van.

‘’You could hardly blame my wavering patience when you keep looking the way you do,’’ his eyes hinted at looking you over, even if you were in your work uniform.. Then again, it was your tight jumpsuit.

‘’And how do I look?” you questioned, feeding into his teasing while his hands outstretched to meet you half way to take hold of yours, encouraging you to move closer until you now stood between his spread legs.

‘’Like you absolutely want to fall for me..’’ he smirked and you hesitated when you felt the light pull on your hands to indicate for you to lower yourself.

The two of you hadn't done anything necessarily.. Overboard to compromise your job or his trust.. But the growing tension of flirtation, touch and make out sessions were hiring the challenge by not absolutely devouring each other. You could never take on a friend with benefits, but the two of you hinted at loyalties where you'd be absolutely serious on being his partner if the world would have allowed you too.. 

Fury would claim he mind controlled you, getting you closer in hopes to perhaps gain an allie, secrets given and a chance to present escape. Fury knew nothing.. Nor did the team who now and again would often hint at suspicions themselves.. You knew Loki.. Loki would never do such a thing.. And you'd want nothing more than for the two of you to be together than having to just resort to subtle (not so subtle) touches, gestures and whispered words.

‘’We can work it out..’’ Loki whispered, drawing you back in the present as you looked at him, seeing how he continued to hold onto your hands while looking up at you as if he had read your mind. 

‘’You know it’s not that simple..’’ you sighed and felt him nudge your hands again, finally allowing yourself to sink down onto your knees so the two of you were more on eye level.. With Loki taking on a slight hunch as he leaned forward to look at you.

‘’It’s as simple as a disease darling.’’ 

His words made you look at him strangely, knowing he wasn't trying to be insulting but his hands clutched yours tighter to prevent you from pulling away. ‘’Do elaborate so that i do not get further insulted,’’ you half teased and he grinned, raising his hands quickly to catch onto your chin next, keeping you looking at him even amongst the awkward position with his wrists tied.

‘’They are the disease darling, the thing that negatively affects the structure or function of a good thing from happening.’’ he said gently and you studied his face a bit more.

‘’So you're saying.. You and I have a disease?” you almost wanted a laugh at the metaphor the two of you were sharing but that was your relationship wasn't it? All hints towards things that could be easily straightforward and explained. 

Who wants to be boring?

‘’Mmm precisely darling, or at least for as long as we keep living amongst these conditions..’’ he whispered, hinting towards the world amongst you while keeping his eyes on yours as if that was all he could see. His arms raised, being slow and gentle before he suddenly had you in the circle of his arms, his wrists resting just above your hip bones and pulling you closer to rest against his chest. 

You smiled gently at him, scooting all the more closer before raising your arms to wrap around his neck. You knew how you felt for each other, but you’d be lying if you didn't admit your frustrations weren't growing with the limitations you both had to endure because of SHIELD.. No.. because of him..

‘’I regret my actions all those years ago if I would have known it would compromise something I truly wanted.. Someone I truly love.. Our lifestyle right now is because of me.. And i cannot tell you how grateful i am for your patience and-’’

‘’Loki,’’ you stop him, noticing how his desperation and regret began to seep through and you brushed your nose against his to have him pause and look at you. ‘’If you and I are incurable.. To a world that no matter what, wants to keep us separate and stay blind from what they can't see between us.. I will gladly stay infected..’’

It didn't necessarily sound romantic, but the two of you just got each other. The world wouldn't understand, but the world didn't matter to you both. 

Loki’s eyes stayed on you until they began to flutter at the feeling of your looks brushing against his, teasing you at first before he pressed them a bit more firmly against you with his eyes falling closed.

The two of you simultaneously hummed against each other’s mouths, kissing each other over and over and over again with growing passion with each time you reunited. There came a point that you completely abandoned the fact that there was no exact time limit on when your comrades may return and you climbed up onto his lap. He was careful, holding you carefully in the loop of his bound arms until you were finally straddling him, pressing your chest back against his to return to kissing him, this time with his tongue slipping into your mouth. 

Kissing Loki always felt like the first time.. The passion, the intensity and domination, whether he was cuffed or not. The way he growled in your mouth when your fingers slipped into his hair, either tugging to scratch his scalp while his head leaned more into your touch. His own hands kept you firm against his, his fingers flattening enough to grasp at your ass and knead at it. 

If the two of you weren't in the van, your clothes probably would have finally been torn off- but there was always that knacking reminder that the two of you would always have to hold a little back.

Leaning back for air finally, the two of you looked at each other through half lidded eyes and his voice came out nothing more than a whisper.

‘’I wanna take you..’’ 

Your eyes fluttered and your head tilted back when you felt his lips now at your throat. ‘’Not here..’’

‘’I want to break you..’’ he growled, tugging you even closer against him while he nipped at your flesh, the feeling of his bulge twitching below you had you raise noticeable in the air, you almost considered it.

‘’Loki…’’

‘’Stop me before i do it again..’’ he whispered, desperation and need in his voice while you could feel his thighs tense below you and need to buck up.

The feeling between your own legs also was pulsing, the want to rub and hump him causing your legs to squeeze around his hips, you looked down at him with that shared mischievous look he often had when getting into trouble.

‘’Darling..’’ he warned, his jaw tense and you moved your hands to his shoulders now to stabilize yourself, fluttering your eyes when you pushed back a little before dragging your hips back towards his own, rubbing up against his bulge again that not only stimulated you, but had him getting riled up as well.

‘’Not-.. Gods.. not.. Here..’’ he didn't sound convincing much as his head fell back with his eyes shut, swallowing thickly as you repeated your action with the same pace in hopes to tease him. ‘’Darling.. You’re killing me..’’

‘’I’m suffering along with you.. But luckily nothing is quite impossible with the right determination..’’ you whispered, the corner of your mouth tugging up and you questioned if the two of you really were going to do this..

A hum left his lips as you began dragging back and forth, tilting your hips enough to stimulate your clit through your tight uniform before dragging your entire center over his bulge, giving him the same simulating pleasure where his hips began to tilt up and meet you.

‘’Fuckkk..’’ he groaned, Midgardian language having rarely left his tongue unless it were times like this- even if this was probably the riskiest thing you’ve ever done..

‘’I want.. Mmm i want too..’’ you mumbled, that coil beginning to wind up in your pelvis as you firmly began to hump him, adding a little bit more speed while his hands gripped onto you and helped drag you forward.

‘’I know darling.. I know.. So do i..’’ he ground out, fluttering his eyes open to watch you while your pupils blew up with lust.

The two of you kept at the rhythm, almost intentionally where you didn't want to finish just yet but to make this moment of pleasure last through touch and passion. Your thighs began to shake, ignoring the slight burn as the pleasure acted as a great distraction and your fingers curled now into his shirt.

He began to pant, watching you as if you were the most beautiful creature he had laid his eyes on before reaching up, cradling the back of your head before pulling you down, capturing your lips in his once more. 

The two of you moaned, your hips growing faster while his hips began to rock up into yours. His tongue explored your mouth, almost shoving deeper if you hadn't pulled back enough to bite at his bottom lip. The tease ran his hands back down to your ass, firmly grinding you back and forth against his hips before you began to feel his bulge pulse way more.

‘’Loki.. I’m.. i’m..’’ you whimpered, your arousal almost there while his pulses seemed to almost vibrate against your clit in the most delicious way.

‘’Go ahead dalring.. Cum for me.. Right here..’’ he whispered, his lips parted in a silent moan while he was nearly there himself.

With one more firm drag, your head throws back and you let out a moan, feeling your empty cunt clench around noticing but pulse and begin to drench a bit through your panties.

It only took a moment after you before Loki’s hands held you down against him, almost as if he were holding you down on his cock had it been inside before he pulsed and groaned, creaming his own pants while the two of you rode your high.

Your limbs shook and you wrapped your arms around him with your chin resting against his shoulder, taking in his sweet scent while he buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply until his hips began to slow down and settle. 

The two of you held each other for awhile, climbing down from your highs while feeling your heart beats against each other’s chests. You squeezed your eyes shut, emotions running through you with the need to squeeze him, kiss him, Hel- even cry with how much you cared for him.. 

His breathing grew even while his hands rose to gently begin rubbing one against your back soothingly, resting his chin against the spot between your shoulder and your neck.

‘’Loki?”

‘’Mmm?” he said quietly, thoroughly relaxed and you could almost hear the smile in his voice.

‘’We’re going to be okay..’’ you said quietly, almost snuggling closer before you felt him lean back, making you lean back as well to let him look at you.

His eyes were gentle, a smile soft on his lips while he looked up at you with as much love as you had in your heart. ‘’I know we will darling, i promise..’’

The sound and feeling of someone hitting the car caused you both to snap your attention towards the window, just enough time to see an enemy agent pass down onto the ground out of sight. Someone must have thrown him.

Raising your eyes to take in the scene, the two of you just discovered the battle happening right outside the van- shield’s flying, blasts firing, Tony darting in and out of your vision while people ran a muck to either evade Cap or throw a useless fist towards him. A battle scene at its finest with the dusk coming up to cover most of the view.

‘’..you think Fury would find out if we go out there and help?” you asked plainly just as the van rumbled and shook before settling again.

The feeling of Loki’s arms pulling you closer, followed by the growing bulge that began to come back below you drew your eyes back to his awaiting ones.

‘’Actually, why not the two of us sit this one out?” he smirked, that mischievous look coming to his eyes again and you knew exactly what he was planning to do.. again.

DM a song for your own Musical Mischief one shot!

Logan stares at his phone, eyes glancing up to the picture next to your contact name. It was one of his favorite pictures of you, caught off-guard. The sight of your face makes him ache.

He's never been one to get homesick, but that's because he never really had a home to miss. Now you're in his life and every time he has to go on a mission or a trip somewhere without you- You're all he can think about.

The motel room he's staying in brings no comfort. The bed is uncomfortable, with a lumpy mattress and scratchy sheets. The paint was peeling on the walls. The tv won't work. There's a strange smell he can't quite locate anywhere in the room. There's a humming noise coming from somewhere too that's driving him insane.

He could've found somewhere better. Charles pays for it and he should of taken advantage of the old mans money and sprung for a nice hotel with room service and a tv that works - but Logan's not very good at giving himself nice things.

He sighs when you haven't replied yet. It's past midnight, you're probably asleep and haven't heard your phone go off. He was tempted to call you just so he could hear your voice- but the guilt over waking you up won over. He sets his phone aside and shifts uncomfortably on the bed.

He should sleep, but he's not tired. In fact he's completely wired. Feeling antsy and needing to do something. There's a hole-in-wall bar down the road he passed on the way here, probably open still. He could go down there and get a few drinks- and maybe a good fight for some entertainment.

But even that didn't seem enticing. What he really wants is you. He wants to see you, hear you, feel you.

That's when the idea popped in his head. He just needs a little entertainment to get him by for the night. Logan reached for his phone again, unlocking it and going to the gallery. He's not very good with technology but you have showed him a few things- things he found quite favorable and probably the only good thing he thinks technology has.

Most pictures are of you- anything different is usually you taking his phone and messing with it. He scrolled past several pictures of his butt you apparently have taken without his knowledge- he had to pause on one. His bare ass in one picture- It looks like you took it when he was lying face down in bed. He'd laughs to himself about it though. If you were here he'd pretend he was annoyed because you get a kick out of it- but really he loves the silly things you do.

He doesn't have to scroll much longer to find the video he wanted. He clicks it, watching it fill the screen and presses play. While it starts, he works on unbuckling his pants.

The camera is point at the floor. He could hear you giggling about something, and then him grumbling.

"So this button you just pause it, it doesn't stop the video- you just pause it and when you want to play again and in the video it'll skip. The block ends the video completely." You're explaining, the camera shaking a bit. There's a small skip where the frame is on a different part of the floor.

"Alright- So…" He hears his voice now, the phone lifts up and is half pointed at the mirror that's hung up against yours and his bedroom door. He could see himself standing there scowling at the phone, and a part of you giggling as you wrap your arms around his bicep, peering into the phone.

"It's not complicated, big guy." You teased, your hand going around his waist. You make him move further into the view of the mirror, then your hand comes up to position how he holds the phone so that it now shows the both of you.

"I know it isn't…" He mutters, seemingly checking the both of you out in the mirror. Then he brings an arm around you, turning towards you. You look at him in the mirror, before facing him to look up and meet his eyes. He grins. "But I'm not going to hold this the entire time."

You laugh, "You don't need to. We'll set it up."

You reach for the phone, and the frame skips again.

"Okay! I got it- I think…"

The phone was now on the floor, leaning against a pile of stuff. It's angled perfectly towards the mirror. He can see you on the ground with it, messing around with the phone. He sees himself standing in the background, watching you- or, more accurately watching your ass.

"You almost done there, sweetheart?"

"Yes."

You stood up and Logan steps towards you, hands on your hips pulling you towards him. "Let's do this then, been waiting long enough."

You laughed. "Well it was your idea, Mr. Impatient."

"Yeah with a real camera. Not these silly phones."

You start to giggle again, shaking your head while your hands fiddle with his shirt, "A real camera? What, one from the 1800s old man? That would've taken twice as long to set up."

He grumbles, deciding the argument was futile and before you could say anything else he kisses you to shut you up. He can hear your mirth through the kisses but finally you give in, wrapping your arms around his neck and standing on your tiptoes to get closer.

His hands start running over your body, cupping your ass first, before sliding up your back, under your shirt.

Logan lets out a small sigh. He's pulled out his cock, half hard and growing. He grips the base of it and squeezes as he admires your curves against his body in the video. The kisses have turned passionate, and he could hear your breathy moans.

"Maybe we should pause it again," You mutter as Logan leaned down to start kissing your neck. "Skip it to the good part?"

"Baby, all of this is the good part." Logan groans. "Lets get this off ya…." He motions to your clothes, beginning to lift your shirt up.

He watched as you both pull off each others clothes, flirting and giggling along the way. He strokes his cock occasionally, but doesn't fully commit - not quite ready to get himself off yet.

In the video, you're now completely nude, and so it Logan. He turns you to face the mirror, while he stands behind you. He leans in and whispers in your ear while looking at you in the mirror, making you laugh.

"Gorgeous…" He mutters to himself. He actually feels jealous of himself in the video. Being able to love on you the way he wishes he could right now. He watches the way your tits move, the happiness on your face as he presses kisses all over your neck and shoulders, his hands sliding over your body until they reach up to cup your tits.

His hand fondles them while he sucks on your neck. Your own hand reaches behind you, and judging by his reaction, and Logans own memory, you had begun stroking his cock.

He began stroking himself, at the same rhythm that your arm was moving. He could feel butterflies building up low in his belly, but he wasn't planning to cum anytime soon- he wanted to see the main part of the video before he allowed himself any sort of relief.

After a bit of fooling around, Logan finally had you on the floor with him. You were on his lap, front facing the camera where most of Logan was shielded from view by your body. His hand had made home between your thighs, toying with your clit - and whispering dirty things in your ear that the phone didn't pick up.

He didn't need to hear them though. He knows exactly what he said.

Such a pretty little thing for me ,darling. You excited to watch yourself get fucked in the mirror?

You moaned, moving your hips against his hand, nodding as your reached an arm back behind yourself to hold onto him, your hand burying into the fluff of his hair.

You're soaking wet, bet you cant wait to see this cock pounding into that pretty pussy of yours.

You gasped, your other hand reaching down between your legs, reaching his cock as you lift your hips. "Lo, please." You whined, tipping your head back against his shoulder. "Please, I want your cock."

He laughs, his hand removing itself from between your thigh, giving your ass a hard smack that makes you jump. "Alright baby," He speaks up louder that the phone can pick up. "It's all yours."

Logan leans back onto the floor, disappearing from the mirror. You raise your hips higher, holding his cock in place as you slowly lower yourself over him.

Your face changes into pure ecstasy as his tip pushes inside you.

Logan begins to stroke his cock faster, subconsciously as he watches you continue to lower yourself over him. "You like that, don't you sweetheart?" he mutters quietly to himself. "Bet you've been missing my cock since I've been gone..."

He was considering snapping a pic of himself to send to you, and when you wake in the morning you'll know he had been thinking about you all night. Maybe he'll send the 'after' photos when he's done, because he doesn't want to click off the video yet.

In the video, he can see his hands massaging your thighs carefully. Then his voice picks up, further away in the background.

"Lean back, baby. I want to make sure the camera sees everything in the mirror."

You nodded your head quickly. Falling back, your hands are placed on the floor on either side of Logan's torso. You spread your legs open further, bracing your feet onto the floor. Logan's hands grab the underside of your thighs, gripping them so tight he could see the divots in your skin and lifts your legs in the air.

He starts slow, his cock leaving your pussy only halfway, before going back in. The slick of your cunt was glistening in the mirror, and the stretch of your pussy around his thick member nearly made Logan bust right then and there.

He had to pause the video, staring at the screen and every little detail like he was studying a work of art.

"Fuck…If I only I could have you like this all the time." He mutters. What he really admired though, was the absolute joy on your face. You head slightly tilted back, eyes shut, and a smile on your parted lips. If it wasn't for risking others seeing it- he'd take a screenshot of this and put it as his wallpaper.

The tight feeling of climax in him settled down, but his cock remained painfully hard. He resumed the video, and took it in his hand, slowly stroking once again.

Logan began to pick up the pace of his thrusts. He watches his cock slamming into your cunt, the lovely slick noises and sound of skin together. His balls slapped against your cunt. He admired the way your tits bounce with every movement. You're moaning, gasping, and begging Logan to keep going, don't stop.

Your arms give out, and you fall against his chest but he doesn't stop. Course he didn't- you were close, he could tell by the way your legs shook.Now, in the mirror all he could watch was his cock pumping in and out of you at a brutal speed. Your hand reached down and began circling your clit desperately, he could hear your cries and pleas for Logan to make you cum.

He started stroking his thick member faster, hoping he can time himself perfectly to cum at the same time you do. It wasn't a challenge- because he arrogantly prides himself on knowing your body just as well as you, if not better. You were about to cum and he could see the telltale signs he spent your entire relationship learning- down to the sweet pitch of your voice.

He felt the buildup inside him finally reach his peek- watching the screen just as your body froze, and heard your moans of his name. He lets out a whine, and a groan of your name at the same time, lifting his hips off the bed and spilling his heavy load over his hand. He didn't stop pumping his fist- the same way he didn't stop fucking you through your climax.

He finally abruptly stops as he pushes himself to the edge of over-stimulation, groaning at the aftershocks of his orgasms, small ropes of cum weakly shoot out of his tip before he becomes limp. He watches himself finish inside you just as you come to the end of your own coitus.

Logan gently drops your legs, arms lifting back- he remembers he was grabbing his hair- trying to get ahold of himself because you felt so damn good he lost himself in you. You pushed yourself back up off his chest, sitting back on your knees. slowly pull him out, breathless. You're looking at the mess he's made inside in the mirror- watching the cum drip out and dribble over his slowly softening cock.

You looked up in the mirror at yourself, smiled, and winked.

Logan chuckles quietly- that was for him. For now, for whenever he watches this video. You blew him a kiss in the mirror, while he in the video sits up, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing your cheek.

"How was that, baby?" He coos in your ear. You hum happily, bringing a hand up to brush through his hair. He closes his eyes at the touch, burying himself into your neck.

"Amazing, as always." You sigh, then turning your head towards him. "You think we put on a good show?"

"I know you did." He purrs. He tilts his head up. "I love you."

You beamed at him, "I love you too." You leaned in and kissed him, and that's when Logan turned the video off. He sighs, tilting his chin down and looking at the mess he's made of himself and decided he'll clean himself up later and doesn't bother to tuck himself back in his pants. He finally felt tired, and was ready to catch some sleep.

He drops his phone on his chest, folding both arms behind his head and closing his eyes. He still missed you terribly, but watching yours and his shared affections in the video helped ease his homesickness a bit, and reminded him that he'll be reunited with you soon.

Just as he started to fall asleep, a hard vibration on his chest startles him awake. He takes a minute to think about what it was- then realized it was his phone. Logan picks it up, eyes squinting at the brightness of the screen (hadn't figured out how to adjust it yet) but his expression quickly softened when he saw your picture and name- You were face-timing him.

Deep and guttural, dragged up from somewhere starved. His hands clamp around your waist, fingers digging into your ass as he hauls you flush against him. Denim rasps against the inside of your thighs when he rolls his hips up, grinding into you.

That thick, heavy bulge makes itself known, humiliatingly honest.

Blood in his mouth. Dirt under his nails and the sour, rotten tang of that other place still caked in his hair. 

And he’s hard.

Something in him is broken that way.

Years of surviving by the skin of his teeth—beaten and concussed and tortured and choked and drowned and devoured—it’s fucked up the wiring in Steve Harrington’s brain.

Pain tolerance shot to hell. Fear braided with dopamine until his nervous system can’t tell the difference anymore.

Getting hurt no longer scares him.

Now, agony comes hardwired with clarity. That split second before impact, when adrenaline screams through his veins and he’s teetering on that razor-sharp edge of death, that’s when he feels most alive.

Your thumb presses into the fresh cut on his lip, smearing his blood back into it. His lashes flutter. His hips jerk up, rutting against you like you’re fucking him.

You grab his jaw, fingers digging into the sharp hinge to force his gaze down to yours. His pupils are blown impossibly wide; barely any color left, drowned beneath an endless wash of black.

“Yeah?” you whisper, venom-sweet. You drag your thumb down his throat, feel the jut of his Adam’s apple jump under your touch. “Does that feel good?”

He nods.

Doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Whatever scrap of self-preservation he’d once possessed hollowed out by hunger—by that sick, reckless void inside him that only ever seems to ignite after he’s survived something that should have killed him.

A cruel cosmic coin toss that keeps landing in his favor—and instead of gratitude, it leaves him burning for more.

You lift your knee and press your thigh into the seam of his pants. He sucks in a sharp breath through blood-slick lips, head tipping back, throat bared.

You despise it.

You despise that this is the language his body understands. That he can shove you out of the way without a second thought—dangle over two hundred feet of empty air because he decided your life was worth more than his—and still get hard when you hurt him for it.

You drag your bloody thumb to your mouth and suck it clean, eyes never leaving his.

He watches you do it, watches your lips wrap around the pad of your finger to taste, to swallow—swallow his blood like it’s yours, like he’s yours, like the world could never take him from you.  

Like he hasn’t already tried to give himself away.

Only this time... it was for you, wasn’t it?

Hurled himself into the abyss without hesitation, fingers scraping at metal while the yawning darkness waited below.

One second slower. One fraction of a heartbeat, and—

Your palms slam into his shoulders.

Just like his had slammed into yours.

Bile surges up your throat as you claw at muscle and bone, shoving and shoving until his balance falters.

He stumbles back, heel catching on the edge of the bed. Momentum betrays him for a second time and he falls back onto the mattress with a startled grunt.  

Your stomach falls with him. Phantom vertigo clawing up your spine, even now.

And the moment you close your eyes—

You’re standing on top of that tower.

You remember the look on his face.

That awful, quiet resolve of someone who had already made peace with his fate.

You remember his hands on your shoulders. The firm press of his fingers, the way he held on just long enough to make sure you were steady, to make sure you were far enough away.

Far enough that you couldn’t reach him.

Far enough that you would live.

And then he let go.

You remember the force of it careening you backward, your boots scraping against the metal platform as you fought for balance. You remember the cold bite of the railing against your back. You remember watching him move in the opposite direction, his own momentum carrying him toward the open edge.

You remember his hand shooting out on instinct, searching for anything that would keep him there. His palm scraping against rusted steel, leaving streaks of red behind as his fingers curled desperately around the railing.

The same hands that had pushed you away.

The same hands that had held yours on the way up, guiding you over every rung of that ladder when the height made your stomach twist.

You remember his mouth opening like he might say something—your name, maybe—a goodbye, something he needed you to know—but all that came out was a broken, ragged breath.

You remember the color draining from his face as he looked down, the terrible understanding settling in his eyes.

You remember lunging for him without thought.

You remember Robin’s arms locking around your waist, holding you back so tightly it bruised, her grip the only thing keeping you from following him over the edge.

And then his fingers slipped.

You stalk toward him now, trying to outrun the memory, fists clenched so tight your nails carve crescents into your palms.

He’s sprawled across the sheets, chest heaving, arms flung wide in surrender.

“Why?” you demand, climbing over him, straddling him with an anger so raw it shakes your whole body. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

He lets out a quick breath through his nose, incredulous. Raises his brows like you’re the insane one.

“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that.”

He’s smiling.

A crooked, boyish thing, manic brightness behind the eyes, adrenaline still lighting him up from the inside out.  

It detonates something in you.

You slam your weight down on him, knees digging hard into his sides. The mattress groans, the air punching out of his lungs in a sharp grunt.

You fist the hem of his shirt and yank it up.

The sight underneath steals your air right back.

It never gets easier to see.

Bruises bloom fresh and vicious across his ribs, inky purples bleeding into sick reds. New hurt swallowed by old hurt, skin that never gets the chance to heal clean before something tears it open again.

Jagged crescents from teeth, ropes of pale, warped ridges that split the tan of his skin like fault lines, ready to crack him open. That chunk of puckered flesh on his right side that never healed right—and it never will.  

Your fingers drag down the center of his chest, shaking.

“What was the plan this time, hm?” you spit, nails scraping over the soft plane of his stomach, catching on one of the scars. “What was the fucking plan, Steve?”

You hook your fingers into his belt buckle and rip it loose, hard enough that the metal clangs against itself.

“Answer me. What would you have done if—if Jonathan didn’t catch you? If you slipped?”

His head falls back, exposing the flushed column of his throat, pulse hammering wild and alive under skin you’ve kissed a hundred times.

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” he pants. “Let you fall?”

“You didn’t know I was gonna fall!”

“Well I wasn’t gonna fucking wait to find out, alright?”  

The mattress groans when he pushes himself upright too fast, pain flashing across his face before he buries it immediately, one hand flying to his ribs on instinct.

“I can’t... I’m not gonna just stand there and wait for something to happen to you.”

Your body goes still.  

The bright sting behind your eyes arrives right on cue, the fury choking off in your throat until all that’s left is grief.

“You know,” you whisper, quieter now. “You know I’m not just talking about the tower.”

There’s a moment of recognition in his eyes as the words sink in, a flash of something that might be guilt if he ever let it sit long enough.

He knows exactly what you mean.

Then, just as fast, he shutters himself. Lets the feeling die before it can root.

His gaze slides away toward the ceiling.

“No, don’t... don’t do that,” he mutters. “Don’t make this into some... suicidal thing. It wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“You could’ve died tonight.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the fucking point!”

“Well what do you want me to say?” he fires back suddenly, frustration cracking his voice. “That I’m sorry I stopped you from falling?”

“I want you to stop acting like your life means less than mine!”

He clamps his mouth shut, an audible click of his molars as he frowns, incredulity settling behind his wide eyes. His brows pulling together as he stares at you like he can’t understand why you could possibly be saying this.

Steve doesn’t consciously believe his life matters less.

He would never say that.

But somewhere deep down—in the ugly marrow of him, in the abandoned, lonely places built inside him when he was a kid—he believes it instinctively.

You’ve known that for a long time now.

Steve grew up starving.

Not for food.

For affection.   

A reason to believe he mattered even when there was nothing he could offer except himself.

Love, in the Harrington house, was conditional.

And at Hawkins High, he traded one kind of emptiness for another.

Built himself a throne out of borrowed attention and hollow praise.

Then the world ended, and suddenly everybody needed him.

Needed his fists, his strength. Needed the frightening way he could take hit after hit after hit and still stand back up bleeding.

Steve latched onto that feeling with both hands.

And his body became a type of offering.

A thing to spend.

You’ve lost count of how many nights ended exactly like this.

Both of you stumbling back home, adrenaline clawing through your veins, slick with sweat and blood—yours or his, it doesn’t matter anymore. Shaking so hard your teeth chatter while you scream at him, fists slamming into his chest.

Screaming and shoving and crying and kissing and begging—begging him to please, please stop being so fucking careless with your life. What’s the point of any of this shit if you’re dead, Steve?      

It always ends the same way. Your anger dissolving into something wetter as Steve reaches for your waist with bruised hands, dragging you against him, mouthing apologies into your throat he’ll never say aloud. Fucking you on top of bloodstained sheets while the smell of iron hangs thick in the room, face buried in your neck, every thrust a word he won't say.

Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

You stare at him now, chest heaving, lungs scraping for air that won’t come.

Then you reach down and pull his wrists together.

The leather creaks when you thread his belt around them.

Loop, thread, pull, cinch.

Survival knots perfected in the dead of night, in basements and back rooms, hands slick with sweat while you practiced until it stuck. So when the time came, you could hold down something thrashing and dangerous.

Because hesitation is what gets people killed.

It makes sickness crawl up your throat, how naturally your body remembers.

How this world has taught you to restrain someone you love—and taught you well.

You yank his arms above his head, the strap biting into his skin, pulling tight until the leather creaks and his skin pales underneath.

Steve doesn’t fight it, doesn’t even try. Just lets his head fall back against the pillows, wrists falling limp over dark linens.

Has the fucking audacity to smile.

“What,” he breathes, wrecked in an entirely different way now. “You gonna punish me?”

You yank the belt tighter.

He hisses softly through his teeth, brows creasing in a fake show of pain, hips stirring in anticipation.

“Okay, easy, easy,” he mutters breathlessly, grin crooked. “Jesus—easy, honey.”

“Oh, so now I’m honey?”

You shove his wrists harder into the pillow, then drop your hands to his pants, fingers rough and impatient. The button fights you before snapping loose, his zipper dragged down with a harsh metallic rasp. He sucks in a breath, back arching as the pressure eases off his swollen cock.

“Baby...” he tries, a soft laugh in his voice. “C’mon, you don’t have to, just—”

“Shut up.”

You shove him back into the mattress, gaze burning furiously through him.

He just stares back, that reckless, adrenaline-drunk smile still clinging to him like he hasn’t learned a single fucking thing.

So you wrap your hand around his throat.

Four fingers digging into warm, sweat-slick skin. Your thumb presses into the hollow beside his windpipe until you can feel it.

The frantic thump-thump-thump of life.

Life he throws around like loose change.

“S-shit, babe...” he chokes softly, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back, the fucked-up wires in his brain firing off all at once. He uses what little leverage he has to lift his hips, grinding against your ass until you tighten your grip, a crease of real strain forming between his brows as his breath snags under your palm.

But even then, he doesn’t push you away. His bound hands strain downward, fingers grasping uselessly at your wrist, tugging you forward so he can get you closer, grind up harder.

You hate him.

You love him so much it makes you violent.

And he’s still fucking bleeding.

Face covered all over in fresh cuts and bruises, illuminated by the soft blue glow of the dinosaur nightlight in the corner—same one he’s had since he was five.

This bed once held your first kiss.

Your first time.

Steve laughing breathlessly into your mouth at sixteen years old because he kept fumbling the condom wrapper with nervous hands.

Whispered promises under blankets about senior year and college.

A hundred different somedays and maybes.

About a future that didn’t look like this—didn’t include gates or monsters or watching the boy you love come within inches of disappearing, over and over again.

Now you’re choking him in it.  

Straddling him with your hand around his throat because you don’t know how else to make him understand that you cannot survive loving somebody who keeps choosing death.

It won’t leave you alone, the image of his face on top of that tower.

Not an inch of hesitation.

Like it wouldn’t have mattered, either way.

Your other hand comes up, circling his throat fully now, pressing in. 

Your eyes sting as you narrow them, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.

Barely a whisper, the words cut you on their way out.

“Fuck you.”

Some days you think about killing him yourself.

Ending it before the world gets to.

Precipitate the inevitable doom that is loving a man who would bleed for you, break for you, die for you—

But won’t live for you.    

At least it would be quick, then.

At least you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life waiting for the inevitable moment where his luck finally runs out.

It’s unbearable.

Loving someone who would move mountains to keep you alive, but cannot understand why you’d want the same for him.

Calm in the face of oblivion, martyrdom fits him like a second skin. 

That’s what terrifies you most.

Because somewhere deep down, you know he doesn’t fear death the way he should. The way a normal person would.

Sometimes, you think a part of him finds peace in the idea of going out useful.

And it’s all so completely, irreparably fucked, because you don’t love him despite it.

You love him because of it.

Loving Steve Harrington feels like standing on a fault line, waiting for the ground to split wide and swallow you whole.

It’s a special, exquisite kind of torture, to be so in love with a man who throws himself at death like it’s a dare.  

And it is love, undeniably and irrevocably so.

You love him.

By god, you love him.  

Because his martyr complex is just a twisted language for devotion. When he throws himself into danger, you know it isn’t bravado—it’s instinct. A reflex burned into his bones, older than logic, older than fear.

Love is the only language Steve Harrington has ever been fluent in, and he speaks it with his whole body.  

It turns his skin into armor, his heart into a blade. Sharp enough to carve permanent lines inside you—wounds that might close, someday, but never fade.

And he really does believe it.

That this is what it looks like, loving somebody.

But what good is devotion if it buries you?

What good is love from someone six feet under?

Your hand loosens around his throat, just enough for him to drag in a ragged breath. His chest heaves under you, pulse still racing against your palm.

His Adam’s apple bobs, sending ripples of light over the pale rings circling his neck, thin and white against his flushed skin. Scars that still have him jerking awake some nights, clawing at his own throat, gasping like he’s still back there.

Nightmares that leave him staring at the ceiling until four in the morning because every time he closes his eyes, he sees vines threading around broken bodies. Migraines that get so bad after trips to the Upside Down he has to sit alone in dark bathrooms, forehead pressed against cool tile, breathing through the nausea until the room stops tilting.

His hands still reach for a nail bat when the house creaks at night, before he's even fully awake.

Fear has never made him run. It only ever taught him to step forward.

And the tear you've been holding back all night finally slips free, landing on his bare stomach with a soft, awful plop.

Steve flinches like it’s acid, muscles clenching underneath you.

“Baby...”

You let go of his neck fully as you sink back onto his thighs, fingers gone numb, teeth digging into your lip until copper floods your mouth.

“You didn’t even hesitate.”

You watch as his expression immediately sobers, brows drawing together, eyes flicking between yours.

“Y-you never do. You never fucking hesitate,” your breath starts coming in tight hitches, catching in your chest. “And it’s like—it’s like—”

The rest of the words slip free, torn loose now that everything’s exposed, out there in the open, your handprint around his throat and his wrists bound in leather.    

“...It’s like you don’t even care if you leave me here.”

Steve goes silent for a moment, shoulders slumping with a quiet breath.    

You watch—eyes burning, body trembling—as he slowly reaches for you. The leather belt creaks as his wrists slide down until his fingers brush yours.  

You feel the metal burns on his palms against the back of your hand—his skin split from gripping the railing so hard he tore himself open just to keep from falling.   

He whispers your name on a soft breath.

“Baby, if I ever lost you?” He shakes his head faintly. “That’d be it for me.”

You sniff hard, refusing to blink.

“I mean it.” Light pools in his eyes, trembling along the lower lashes until they glimmer like wet glass. “I’d never… I’d never leave you behind. How could I?”

He closes his fingers gently around your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse.

“I love you. More than... more than anything. You know that.”

You lift your gaze slowly to meet his.

“Do I?”

Two words, but it’s the ugliest thing you’ve said all night.

It's suffocating, the silence that follows.

“Do you ever think about us? About me?”

Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it?

For all the names you’ve thrown at him in your worst moments—reckless, stubborn, idiot, a selfish asshole with a death wish—

It’s you who feel selfish.

For wanting him to stay.

For wanting to keep him in a world that seems determined to take him first.

For wanting him to choose you over the next disaster that crawls out of the dark.

Because you’re terrified that when the moment comes, when it’s you or the world, he won’t have to think about it. That the world will always reach for him first—and that one day, it’ll win.

Or worse, that he’ll choose you instead.

That he’ll stop running toward danger because of you. That loving you will make him hesitate.

And you’ll be the reason he changes.  

The reason the world breaks.

Steve’s expression changes in a flash.

The belt creaks as he tries to sit up, a real wince cutting across his brow when his bruised ribs take the pressure. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, dragging himself upright.

“Look at me.”

You turn your head instinctively, but he follows.

“Hey. C’mon. Look at me.”

Hazel burns molten in the dim light, the shine in them trembling.

“Of course I think about you,” he whispers, breathless. “You don’t think I think about you? Hey, hey, look at me—you’re all I think about. You’re in my head, all the time. Every fucking second.”

Your tears spill harder, falling freely now, dripping from your chin onto the dark brown fabric of his cargo pants, leaving small damp spots that bloom between you.

“Every time something goes wrong, or—or I’m thinking about doing something stupid, you’re there. First thing. Your face, your voice. Telling me to stop being an idiot, telling me to think—"

You shake your head, a broken sound catching in your throat.

“And if I just stood there tonight,” he presses on, eyes locked on yours, brimming with tears but never flinching, “If there was even a chance you could fall, and I didn’t do anything?”

He swallows.

“I couldn’t live with that. I mean it, honey. I couldn’t.”    

A tear slips loose and slides down his own cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“Baby, I... I wasn’t trying to die. I was trying to end this. All of it. So we don’t have to keep doing this forever.”

His mouth twitches faintly.

“You remember what we talked about? About college? That stupid road trip idea I had with the camper van?” He shakes his head, letting out a quiet laugh. “Six kids, right? Or... whatever insane number I said.”

His hands come up as much as the belt allows, clumsy from the strain in his shoulders, and cradle your face. His thumbs drag across the wet heat beneath your eyes, catching tears as fast as they fall, rubbing salt into flushed skin. 

“That’s the goal. That’s always been the goal.”

He leans forward until his forehead presses against yours.

For a long moment, he says nothing. His hands stay on your face, thumbs brushing softly over your skin, his breathing uneven in the small space between you.

Then, almost too quietly to hear:

“I would’ve jumped with you.”

You recoil immediately, shaking your head hard, eyes squeezing shut.

“Don’t. Don’t fucking say that.”

Steve pushes on, voice low and terrifyingly calm.

“If you’d fallen off that tower tonight, I would’ve followed you.”

His thumb brushes under your eye again, catching another tear before it reaches your jaw.

“Wouldn’t even think about it. I’d just go.”

“Steve—”

“I’d go.”

Your eyes snap open.

Those big, stupid hazel eyes bore into yours.

That stupid nose. Those stupid thick lashes and those stupid moles and those stupid lips.

And underneath all of it, that huge, catastrophic, stupid heart crammed inside a body that keeps throwing itself into danger like it doesn’t belong to him.

Your chest aches just looking at him.

You’ve spent countless nights staring at Steve Harrington while he slept beside you, wondering if loving him would always feel like standing barefoot on train tracks.

Waiting.

Feeling the vibrations underneath your feet before the impact ever comes. Knowing that something massive and merciless will come racing toward you and there won’t be a damn thing you can do to stop it. 

Sometimes you’d trace the slope of his nose with the back of your finger. Follow the shape of his eyebrows. The tiny scar under his chin from a T-ball game when he was six.

You’d study the dip of his cupid’s bow, the soft curve of his lips as he breathed into his pillow, completely unaware of how thoroughly he’d ruined your life for anyone else.

And you’d torture yourself with the same impossible question.

If someone had stopped you before all of this, taken your face in both hands and said:

Here, this boy is going to become the center of your entire world.

He's going to make you laugh so hard your ribs hurt.

He’s going to kiss you like you’re the last person on earth, and he's going to love you so completely you'll forget there was ever a version of yourself that existed before him.

He's going to look at you like you're the only thing worth finding at the end of the world.

Then one day, he’ll start throwing himself in front of monsters and nightmares beyond comprehension. 

He's going to throw himself off a tower without hesitating if it means you get to live.

Would you still choose him?

Would you still let him in, knowing one day he might not make it back?

Would you willingly hand your heart to someone who would protect it with his life—

But never his own?

And even in the quiet space of that hypothetical, the answer had never changed.

You would.

Every fucking time. 

“I love you,” the boy in front of you whispers.

The words slice straight through you, scraping against everything frayed raw inside your chest.

“Shut up,” you breathe, eyes squeezing shut.

Because if he loved you, wouldn’t he try?

Wouldn’t he try?

“I love you.”

“Steve, s-stop.”

“I love you. There’s nothing—nothing—that matters to me more than you.”

“Steve, I swear to god—”

“You’re it for me. And if it came down to it again—”

“Please, stop—”

“—I’d choose to jump. Every time.”

It feels like a seam is splitting inside your chest.

Your breath caves first—a sharp, stuttering inhale that catches in your lungs hard enough to hurt—before your body moves on instinct.

You surge forward, the mattress groaning beneath the force of it as you crash into him, fists tangling in the front of his shirt.

“Fuck you,” you sob.

Steve sucks in a breath as you pound weakly at his chest, his restrained hands jerking uselessly between your bodies.

He can’t hold you properly. Can’t wrap his arms around you the way he wants to.

Still, he tries.  

He shifts forward on the mattress, pulling you between his thighs. The leather around his wrists creaks when he strains to hook his arms around your waist.

You bury your face against his neck.

His entire body folds around yours, chest pressed flush against you so tightly you can feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat through his sternum, the uneven rise and fall of his lungs where your bodies are crushed together. He presses his cheek against your temple, breathing hard through his nose.

“I know,” he murmurs hoarsely into your hair. “I know, baby. I know.”

“N-no, y-you don’t,” you choke out.

Your hands claw at his shoulders hard enough to bunch the fabric beneath your fists. You need him closer. Closer than skin, closer than bone. If you could unzip his ribs and crawl inside his chest just to keep his heart beating yourself, you would.

“You don’t know,” you sob against his throat. “You d-don’t know what it f-feels like—”

“Hey,” Steve whispers shakily. “Hey, c’mon. Breathe for me, baby. Please.”

You curl tighter against him, fists twisting in the soft cotton of his shirt until your knuckles throb from the effort. The tears don't stop. They soak into the warm skin at the base of his neck, your breath catching against him in broken, uneven pulls until your throat burns and your ribs ache with every desperate inhale.

Steve gathers you as close as his battered body will allow. Every so often, he presses another lingering kiss into your hairline, your temple, the crown of your head, each one quiet enough to say what words can't.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs into your hair. “M'right here, I got you. Not going anywhere.”  

You let his words settle over you, one shaky breath at a time. The sobs begin to lose their violence, splintering into uneven hiccups that leave your chest sore and hollow.

When you finally pull back, it's only far enough to see him. 

Your hand trembles when you lift it to his face.

Steve goes still as your fingertips ghost over the scrape on his cheek, tracing down the line of his jaw. He doesn’t so much as flinch when your thumb brushes over the split in his lip, featherlight over the broken skin there.

The first kiss is soft.

Nothing like the frantic, bruising collision from earlier.  

But it’s worse like this, somehow.

Wet with tears, with blood, salt and iron passed between soft, shaking kisses. Steve sighs into it, a trembling sound that vibrates against your lips as he tilts his head and follows you deeper. His nose nudges against your cheek, his kisses careful, almost hesitant in how tender he’s being with you.

And it’s funny, really.

How grief can change shape in the span of a heartbeat.

One moment it's lodged beneath your ribs like broken glass, your body still trapped on that radio tower, watching Steve disappear over the edge.

The next, it's here.

In the careful way he kisses you, the warmth of his breath against your mouth.

In the slow, wet drag of his tongue against yours, your fingers hooking into the open button of his pants. The zipper presses cold against the side of your hand before you push deeper, slipping beneath the elastic of his briefs.

He’s already half-hard. Heavy and thick and burning hot against your palm, velvety-soft skin twitching when you wrap your fingers around him. The soft curl of hair at his base brushes against your knuckles when you adjust your grip.

He pants openly into your mouth as you slide your other hand into his hair, gripping tight, yanking his head back at the angle you want it.  

Nose to nose, lips brushing even as you’re not kissing—only sharing air and spit, slick between swollen mouths.

And your eyes stay open, watching him.

Darkened hazels and helplessly fluttering lashes, his is a face that will haunt every version of your future. The one you almost lost, the one you’re still begging the universe to let you keep.

“Show me.”

He blinks at your words, lips parted in soft pants.

“Show me how much you love me.”

He swears under his breath, eyes clenching shut.  

“Fuck…” he groans, shaking his head slowly, side to side, grunting when you drag your thumb across the sensitive tip. “Baby, please... just untie me,” he pleads, straining against his binds again. “Please—fuck—let me touch you—”

“No.”

“Please, baby—”

“No,” you repeat, wrist rolling as you start to stroke him harder, feeling him swell fully in your grip.

He grunts, brows creased in pleasure as you continue to squeeze and glide your palm up and down his length, lips parted to keep kissing you in this obscene way, tongues sliding together in slow, wet strokes.

“God, you’re so... so pretty when you’re mad, you know that?” He huffs against your mouth, almost a laugh, throat gone hoarse and dry from how hard he’s been panting.

“You get this look like you’re—ah, fuck—like you might actually kill me.”

You squeeze your grip around his cock, dangerously tight.

“Maybe I should.”

Something catches in those soft hazel eyes, then.

Pinning you in place with nothing but their unblinking stare, almost unnervingly steady.

You watch, helpless, as he lifts his own hands up toward his mouth. He spits lewdly into the hollow of his right palm, shoving his waistband down just enough to free his cock, replacing your hand with his own.  

Wrists still bound, he slicks himself in slow, wet strokes, eyes never leaving yours.

"Yeah?" he asks quietly. "You gonna punish me?"

He tips his chin up toward you, lashes nearly brushing your skin when he blinks.

“You gonna use this cock, baby? Take it out on me?”

He uses what little range of motion he has to rub his tip up and down your glistening slit, obscene schlicks that fill the space between your breaths, spurred by the impatient grinds of your hips.

And the moment he pushes inside you, he breathes the words against your skin.

“I love you.”

His mouth swallowing your whimpers at the stretch of taking him this way—no prep, no lube, just spit—yours, his, it doesn’t matter anymore.

“I love you. I love you. We’re... we’re gonna be okay, baby, I promise. We’re gonna be okay.”

Your hands shake as you reach for the belt around his wrists, the buckle catching under your fingertips before releasing with a muted clink. He cups your cheeks as soon as it does, cradling your face, pressing his lips against yours. 

“I love you,” he repeats against your mouth, over and over. “I love you. I love you.”

Grief really is a funny thing.   

It burns until there's nothing left to consume

And the anger that had kept you upright for hours—the frantic, desperate need to make him understand how terrified you'd been—begins to crumble beneath the weight of what you almost lost.

Your strength gives out in increments. Your fingers slowly uncurl from his biceps, the crescents your nails pressed into his skin easing away. Your forehead finds the warm slope of his shoulder instead, eyes slipping shut as the last of the fight drains from your body.

You sag forward, soft whimpers and low groans exchanged between your lips as you rock back and forth on his cock, letting it fill up the hollowed-out places inside you.

And when you get too tired to do even that—when your strength gives out, thighs trembling with the effort of lifting yourself up and sinking back down—he’s there to catch you.

One arm sliding securely around you as he eases you onto your back, the muscles in his shoulders rippling under your fingertips as you wind your arms around his neck. You cling to him as he kisses you hard and deep, exchanging punched-out breaths as he starts up his thrusts with newfound fervor.

"Gonna marry you," he pants suddenly, stealing what little breath you have left.

You gasp against his mouth, caught between a disbelieving laugh and another sob. “Steve—”

“I mean it,” he insists, hips snapping into the mattress, barely pulling out before burying himself back in. “I-I want all of it. That house with the... the porch. That trip we keep talking about, in the camper van, and—”

His face screws up and he has to stop moving for a second, drawing in a shuddering breath.

“I’m gonna marry you and—fuck—gonna give you a baby.”   

You choke on the words, a helpless sound catching in your throat as you cling to him, bruisingly tight.

“Yeah?” He strokes your hair back, cupping the crown of your head with his palm. Smoothing the sweat-slick strands away from your face, thumb lingering at your temple as his eyes search yours. “You want me to give you a baby?”  

You nod into him, unable to find the words.

“How many?”

His pace is unrelenting—thrusts hard enough that the bedframe is thudding repeatedly against the wall, hard enough that you know the wallpaper’s going to show it tomorrow.  

“Tell me,” he grunts, voice rough with emotion, like he needs to hear you say it out loud. “How many?”

Sweat shining along his skin, hair a damp mess across his forehead, but he never once looks away.

“F-fuck, I don’t...” you break on another sob, eyes clenching shut. “Two. Maybe... maybe three.”

“Three,” he repeats to himself, and his hips snap a little sharper. “What about... what about four? Make it a—mm, fuck—make it an even number.”

And it’s hardly new—the kind of bullshit he spouts when you’re both this far gone, when adrenaline has burned through every last nerve and neither of you are thinking straight anymore. He’s always been prone to making wild promises in the heat of the moment—spinning out impossible futures and reckless dreams, building an entire lifetime in the space of a few breathless minutes—just to get you both off.     

But tonight, they don’t feel like a fantasy at all. 

“You’d look so... so fucking pretty,” he pants, voice breaking. “Pregnant with my kid. Jesus.”

“Mm, close...” you whisper weakly, face scrunched at the unbearably mounting pressure in your lower stomach.  

“Yeah? You’re close? You gonna come for me?”

You nod, burying yourself closer, clinging to him harder. “T-tell me again.”

“Tell you what, baby?”

“That you... that you love me.”

“Fuck,” he groans, thrusts turning sloppy as he buries a loud groan against your lips. “I love you. Love you so fucking much. I don’t even know what I’d do without you. I—shit, a-are you coming? Oh, fuck, that’s—that’s it. That’s my girl.”

Your orgasm hits hard and blinding. A broken groan ripping out of you as you clamp your thighs around his waist, mewling into his skin. You blink your eyes open just in time to see his gaze fixed on you—expression reverent, chest heaving as he watches you shake underneath him.

And as you go to kiss him, feeling the labored grunts of his mounting pleasure against your lips, the weight of his breaths and the slick drag of his cock against your heat—

When you press your lips to his and whisper for him to come inside you, make me yours Steve, get me pregnant, keep me, love me, stay with me, stay, stay, please fucking stay—

When he presses inside all the way to the hilt and lets his own pleasure overtake him—

You finally whisper the words back.

Three syllables against the enormity of what lives inside your chest.

Three syllables trying to hold every sleepless night and every quiet morning, every time you pressed your lips to the places on his body that hurt and wished that love alone could take his pain away.

They cannot carry it all.

They never could.

But when he closes his eyes and tips his forehead to yours—his weight melting against you as he presses an exhausted, dazed smile against your lips—you realize maybe the words don’t have to hold it all.

Maybe he can feel the rest.

· · ·

The seal breaks with a sharp snap, the plastic ring splitting loose and skittering across the bathroom floor.

You turn the bottle over in your hand, staring at it for a moment.

It’s the good kind—the expensive kind stored in heavy glass, the label still clean. You haven’t touched it since the day Steve brought it home months ago, back when you could still ask for things like Epsom salt and a box of chocolates at the general store without anyone looking at you like you’d lost your mind.

He’d shown up at your door that afternoon grinning like an idiot, grocery store roses tucked under one arm and a paper bag in his other hand that clinked when he lifted it.

“Thought we deserved something nice,” he’d said, holding up the bag with that stupid, proud little grin. “We haven’t done a proper date night in a while, right?”

But you hadn't used the bottle then.

You'd saved it.

For a night that felt right.

For a night where you weren’t just surviving long enough to see morning.

Your hands shake a little as you tip the bottle now.

Pouring more than you should, watching the pale liquid ribbon into the rushing stream of water, swallowed by the force of it before slowly blooming back to the surface in soft, frothy bubbles.

The smell hits a second later. Sweet, heavy lavender that clings to the back of your throat, swirling with the clean heat of the water.

For a moment, you let yourself go back.

Back to the day Steve bought this because he wanted to take care of you. Because he wanted one normal night where you could both pretend the world hadn’t changed.

A night where the biggest problem was what movie to put on.

Then, the sink creaks behind you.

You turn immediately, heart jumping.  

Steve’s reflection is blurred in the mirror—shoulders slumped, chin dipping toward his chest. He’s got one hand braced against the counter, knuckles pale from how tightly he’s holding on. The other fumbles with an orange pill bottle.

“You okay? You need help?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I got it.”

The words are automatic. Steve’s favorite answer to anything that worries you.

He tips a couple pills into his palm, fills the glass beside the sink, and swallows them down.

You watch his face tighten afterward, eyes squeezing shut as he waits for it to pass. His throat works hard, his whole body briefly tensing, muscles bracing against something that should have been painless.

You step closer, hands settling carefully on his arms as you turn him toward you. 

He doesn’t argue when you crouch in front of him.

You start with his shoes.

Fingers working at the laces, easing them loose before pulling them off one at a time. They hit the tile with a quiet thud. His socks peel off next. Then his pants, the buttons still undone. His briefs.

He stays silent through all of it, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

It’s not much pressure, but you feel the way his weight leans into you, the slight sway when you shift back, like he’s having to constantly correct himself just to stay upright.

Helping him into the tub takes time. You stay close while he steps over the edge, one hand gripping your arm, the other braced against the wall.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself into the water.

The second it reaches his ribs, he hisses.

“Shit—”

His head falls back against the tile, eyes squeezing shut as a sharp breath slips between his teeth. His hand tightens reflexively around your wrist.

Foamy water laps against his chest, darkening the hair across his sternum, rising and falling with each careful breath.

“Too hot?” you ask quickly, already reaching for the faucet.

He cracks his eyes open, shaking his head.

“’S perfect.”

You keep watching him, searching his face for the slightest sign that he's only saying it to spare you.

Then, little by little, the strain begins to loosen its grip.

The hard line of his jaw softens first, his fingers easing around your wrist. His shoulders sink another inch beneath the warm water, the tension slowly melting out of them as the heat works its way into his muscles.

His next breath comes easier. Then another.

After a long moment, his eyes drift open again.

They're hazy with fatigue, heavy-lidded and unfocused, but they find you where you're perched beside the tub, knees tucked against your chest.

He squints, mouth twisting into a petulant frown.

“What?” he murmurs. “You’re not getting in?” 

A smile tugs at your lips. “You want me to?”

He gives you a slow, incredulous look—the classic Steve Harrington stare.

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, like it’s obvious. “How else am I supposed to feel better?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you stand.

Your hands aren’t as steady as you’d like; you notice it more now, with nothing else to focus on.

You pull your shirt over your head, and immediately hear the quiet shift of water beside you, a soft slosh.

By the time you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

Sitting a little straighter than he was a moment ago, chin lifted despite the exhaustion pulling at him. Steam curls between you, softening the edges of his face, but his eyes never leave yours. They follow every movement with boyish concentration, fixed on you in a way that’s not even pretending to be subtle.

You huff a quiet breath through your nose, fighting a smile as you tug the rest of your clothes off.  

“Seriously?”

The corner of his mouth quirks, all innocence.

“What? Sue me.”  

He shifts deeper into the tub, water rolling around him as he eases back, making room between his legs before patting the space in front of him.

You step in carefully, goosebumps prickling as the heat climbs slowly over your ankles, your calves, your thighs. The water embraces you inch by inch until you're lowering yourself fully beneath the surface, warmth wrapping around you like a heavy blanket scented with lavender.

The moment your back brushes his chest, his arms find you.

They slide around your waist with familiar certainty, one settling securely across your middle to draw you closer.  Your hand rises on instinct, covering his forearm where it rests across your stomach. His skin is warm and damp beneath your fingertips, the fine hairs catching against your palm as your thumb strokes absent circles over his wrist.

His chin grazes your shoulder as he nestles closer, his next breath warming the side of your neck.

“This is nice,” he hums, body growing heavier where it rests against yours.

You let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

You let your weight settle back into him completely. He answers by tightening his arm around your waist, one hand gliding up to squeeze your side as he draws you a fraction closer.

You take the other one for you to keep.

Turning it over slowly, relearning it by touch. The familiar roughness of his skin, the broad span of his palm, completely swallowing yours whenever he laces your fingers together. Your thumb glides over the callus at the base of his index finger, the thickened patch of skin from years of gripping weapons he never should have had to hold.

You rub over it absentmindedly, once, twice, then again.

“How do you know?”

The words come so quietly you're not even sure you've said them aloud.

“Hm? Know what?”

“How do you know...” You swallow, unable to lift your eyes from where the water laps gently over your joined hands, pale violet opalescence that ripples around you both. “How do you know this is real?”  

He goes still at that, the only sound between you the soft ripple of water and the rush of your own thoughts filling the space.

“We could still be down there,” you whisper, the words gathering speed the longer you speak.

“Maybe... maybe we never got out. Maybe Vecna just made us think we won by giving us...” You gesture around the room. “...this.”

The lavender.

The warm water.

Him.

“What if none of it's real? What if he just—what if he made us think we were safe because it'd hurt more when he took it away? I mean, how would we even know?”    

Your chest feels tighter with every word.

“What if we're still—"

“Hey.”

Steve's voice is so soft that you almost miss it.

“Hey. Look at me.”

His face is drawn with exhaustion, pain lingering in the tightness around his eyes, in the careful way he holds himself, like every breath reminds him of another bruise.

But they’re still his.

Still that same warm hazel you've spent so many nights memorizing, never daring to believe you'd get a lifetime of looking into them.

“You know how I know?”

Your throat goes tight. “How?”

“Because you’re scared.”

Your brows pull together, fingers tightening around his. He squeezes your hand back, gentle but certain.

“That’s how I know. Because you’re sitting here trying to figure out if this is real instead of just being happy that we’re okay.”

Steve watches you for a moment before looking down between you, at the lavender bubbles drifting around your joined hands.

A bead of water clings to his lashes before he blinks it away.

“I mean…” He draws out a slow breath. “I don’t know if I can prove it. How could anyone, right? After everything that happened? I don’t think any of us are supposed to just wake up the next day and be like, ‘Cool. Guess that’s over.’”

He pauses, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

“But then I look at you and… and I just see you doing that thing.”

You blink. “What thing?”

He lifts your joined hands from the water, droplets sliding down your wrists as the surface ripples around you.

“This.”

He gives your hand a little squeeze, lacing your fingers together more securely. 

“You always start messing with my hand when you’re freaking out.”

Your brows pull together. “What?”

He lets out a soft laugh, reaching up with his free hand to gently tuck a damp strand of hair away from your face.

“Yeah, you grab my hand and then you start doing this weird little... I don’t know. Thing. Like you’re inspecting it or something.”

Only then do you realize your thumb has been moving back and forth over the same callus on his palm, tracing the same small patch of rough skin.

“...Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There’s something teasing about his voice now, his smile.

The same Steve who’d make an absolute idiot of himself just to get you to roll your eyes. Who could make you laugh in the middle of the worst days of your life.

His smile softens as he looks down at the water, where your fingers are still tangled together.

His thumb brushes slowly over the back of your hand.

“I guess… I guess that’s how I know.”

The steam curls around you both, blurring the edges of the room until there’s nothing left but this.

His hand in yours.

His heartbeat steady against your back and his voice low and certain beside your ear.

“Because I know you.”

He tightens his fingers around yours.

“I know you.”

· · ·

Eventually, the warmth of the bath starts to fade.

The water isn’t quite as hot as it was when you first climbed in, the lavender bubbles breaking apart into a faint, delicate layer.

You’re still holding his hand.

Neither of you has let go.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, giving your fingers a small tug.

“Hm?”

He lifts your joined hands out of the water, turning his palm toward himself.

Then he starts tracing something, slow and awkward, brow furrowed as he studies the lines crossing his palm.

You can tell he’s searching for something—squinting at the grooves in his hand, trying to remember a detail you’ve explained to him once or twice before, maybe more.

You watch him for a second, then mumble:

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“I’m doing it wrong?”

“Yes.”

He turns to look at you, eyebrows raised, genuinely offended in that exaggerated way he does when he knows he’s being teased.

“How can I be doing it wrong? It’s my hand.”

You give him a look.

“Because you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

He glances back down at his palm, then back at you.

“Okay, fine, genius,” he huffs, holding his hand out toward you. “What’s this one mean?”

You smile faintly.

“You don’t remember?”  

“No, I do. Just... tell me again? I remember you said mine was good.”

You did. Sitting cross-legged on the couch years ago, his hand stretched across your lap while you traced the lines in his palm. You’d laughed the whole time because you didn’t actually believe in any of it. But Steve had listened like it mattered, eyes serious, hanging onto every word.

You adjust your grip now, turning his hand so you can see it properly. Then you take his index finger between yours and guide it slowly along the deepest line on his palm.

“Here,” you murmur.

His finger follows where you lead it, brushing over the groove that starts just beneath his pinky and curves upward across his hand.

“This is your heart line.”

Steve doesn’t look at his hand.

He looks at you.

“It’s deep, and it doesn’t break. That means you feel things deeply. You lead with your heart.”

He hums softly, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the top of your shoulder.

You keep tracing, guiding his finger toward the end of the line where it curves upward.

“And here, it turns up.”

You press lightly into the space beneath his index finger.

“See that spot?”

“Mm.”

“That’s called the Mount of Jupiter. And when your heart line curves up like that, it kinda means you’re... a hopeless romantic.”

You don’t even have to see his face to know he’s smiling. You feel it in the small twitch of his fingers around yours, in the quiet huff of amusement against your shoulder.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

You follow the line with your own thumb, pretending to study the grooves of his skin like they might reveal something you don’t already know.

But the truth is, you're not really reading his hand.

“It also says you don’t know how to love halfway.” Your thumb follows the line one last time. “When you care about someone… you give them every part of yourself.”

When you glance back over your shoulder, he's already watching you.

Something achingly fragile settled over his expression, a quiet wonder in his eyes as though he's seeing himself the way you always have.

“Yeah?” he whispers.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

You lean in to close the small space between you, brushing your lips against the uninjured corner of his mouth.

It’s a delicate thing, more of a press than a kiss.  

His fingers tighten around yours beneath the water.

“Tell me what else.”

You smile, looking back down at his palm.

“You want me to read everything?”

“Yeah. Obviously.”

You turn his hand back toward you, guiding his finger to another line.

“Okay. This one is your head line.”

Steve settles back against the tub, his arm tightening around you as you continue tracing the little grooves and curves in his palm, explaining what they’re supposed to mean.

The truth is, none of this is anything you don’t already know.

You don’t need the lines in his hand to tell you who he is. 

You’ve known for a long time.

So you tell him what you've been carrying in your heart for longer than you can remember.

That he’s stubborn.

That he’s brave.

That he loves harder than he knows what to do with.

That he’s always seen himself as ordinary when he’s anything but.

And Steve listens.

· · ·

You stay there together until the water goes cold around you.

And though the lavender fades from the bath, the scent still clings to your skin, lingering long after the warmth has left.

Outside this room, there will still be reminders.

Things neither of you can outrun.

Memories that return without warning, scars that ache long after the wounds have closed.

Maybe some things never fully leave.

Maybe they don’t have to.

Because the bad things are not the only things that get to stay.

And when the first light of dawn slips through the bedroom window the next morning, washing everything in soft gold, Steve is still there.

Beside you.

His hand wrapped around yours.