peace.

You don’t say it but you’ve heard the same thing. Somehow this would be the first time working with Jonathan Byers but you certainly were familiar with the name.

Some of the girls had gushed about him—he was so cute and nice and made them feel at ease. Others complained that he didn’t accept their advances or entertain their diva antics. Even worse, one regaled you with a horrific tale of getting caught doing blow on set. He’d tossed the little baggie in the trash without a word. 

Personal opinions varied from model to model but one thing stayed consistent: he was really, really good at his job.

“That means,” Murray continues, “you have the rest of the day and night to yourself. Have fun but, for the love of God, behave yourself. I’m begging you, please. You’ve got two big campaigns coming and name-dropping Gianni can only save your ass so many times.”

You huff at that. You don't even do anything that bad—the tabloids liked to pick on you. Sure, you might have gotten kicked out of a club or two and yeah, you trashed a couple hotel rooms with your shitty ex-boyfriend. You might have even accidentally shoplifted a Chanel scarf once but who hasn’t?

“I’ll be good,” you assure him anyway, properly admonished despite your refusal to accept any wrongdoing. 

“That’s what I like to hear. So, all you gotta do tomorrow is a fitting for Calvin Klein and then you’re free to fuck back off to the West Coast for the rest of the week.”

“Great,” you nod, opening the door.

“You’ll notice the vultures aren’t out right now. Since you just got back from Milan, I figured you could use the break.” You’re actually about to thank him when he says, “but they’ll be here when you’re done so whatever shit they put on your face? Keep it on.”

Asshole. “See you later, Murray.” You don’t give him the chance to say anything else before you’re outside and walking towards the building.

Head low, sunglasses on, you’re able to cross the lobby with zero issues and snag yourself an empty elevator. You settle into the corner, back pressed against the wall as you grab ahold of your Prada bag, dipping into its contents to pull out a tiny, clear vial. You almost salivate at the sight.

Though the neatly packed powder excites you—probably more than it should—the tiniest bit of shame creeps its way in, the way it usually does when you know you’re doing something wrong. It’s for the best. Fashion Week just ended, your flight was long and you were tired—you needed the energy, after all. 

You twist the top off with ease, holding it against the neck of the bottle, so you can slip one manicured nail inside. You pucker your lips, wiping the digit across your top gums once, twice, a third time for good measure, and then you’re putting the lid back on and carefully tucking it away. 

By the time the doors open up on the top floor, you can already feel it. Your body feels warmer, and there’s an extra pep in your step. You’ll feel like shit in a couple hours but for now, you’re golden.

The whole floor was booked, a way to give you privacy and a quiet place to work, but the room you actually needed to be at has its door cracked, they were expecting you. You push your way inside.

Jonathan is directing his assistants as they set up the lighting until he spots you. He pats one on the back, giving one last instruction before heading over.

You’re surprised at first. With the way some of the girls talked about him you expected a little more Brian Austin Green and a little less Kurt Cobain. But then he’s smiling at you and you think you get it.

“Hey! Jonathan Byers,” he introduces himself, extending a hand to you.

You know who he is, he knows who you are, but only pretentious assholes acknowledge that so, you shake his and return the pleasantry.

“Nice to officially meet you.” And the way he says it lets it be known he’s not the only one with a reputation. Yours, though, is a little less sparkling. “Right through there,” an arm extends, motioning towards the bathroom and you catch yourself admiring the sinewy muscle the action exposes before following its direction, “is Gina and Zack.” With both doors open, you can see them in the adjoining room. “They’ll take care of you and then send you back to me.”

It’s most definitely not your first day on a set and, if this was coming from anyone else, you’d find it condescending. But with the way Jonathan says it, it sounds nice, like you’re being looked out for.

“Cool,” you acknowledge the sentiment and head right towards hair and makeup.

—

In no time your hair has been teased, your cheeks highlighted and your lips glossed. You emerge from the bathroom in a black cocktail dress.

Jonathan claps his hands together when he sees you. “There she is! We’re gonna start off on the dresser. Can you get up there?”

You can and you do. Once you’re situated, you pull the hem of the dress down slightly and look up at him expectantly.

“Need you to move a little.”

When you do, he shakes his head. “No, no, I need you…” He trails off, sighing. “Back, a little more to the left.”

You shimmy your entire body in the direction he mentioned but he still doesn’t look pleased. “That’s not—“ His gaze flickers from you to Gina, the makeup artist, who is lingering nearby for touch-ups. “Can I do it?”

In quite literally any other situation a photographer wanting to touch you would be enough to send up hundreds of red flags and set off all the alarms. It’s their way of trying to cop a feel or start something equally unseemly. But, despite all your experience and years in the business, nothing in the request was enough to unnerve you. 

You just met the man and you were finding yourself trusting him, feeling as though you were actually safe. So the decision was an easy one, you nod your consent. 

Once you agree, Jonathan loops the strap of his camera around his neck and steps toward you, the heel of your stilettos brushing against his knee. Two big hand grabs ahold of your hips and, with surprising ease, slides you back to your original position, only with your left hip cocked back leaving you at an angle.

Somehow you’d just been manhandled in the gentlest, most respectful way possible.

You gaze up at him to see he’s already looking at you. Jonathan studies you for a moment—really, really studies you—and seems to see something he doesn’t like as the corner of his lips twitch downward before he steps back. 

“Perfect. Don’t move, okay?”

You take a few pictures exactly in that position. Another with you bent down, cleavage exposed, one finger hooked in the back of your heel as if you’re taking it off. Another with your legs spread but only slightly—we’re not shooting for Penthouse here, Jonathan had said.

The next outfit is a completely unbuttoned white dress shirt, a lacy black bra, and a pencil skirt in the same dark shade. You don’t know if slutty businesswoman really fits Guess but who are you to complain?

From the door to the nightstand by the bed, you’re photographed undressing as you cross the room. The shirt is discarded immediately, the rest is an illusion, hinting at nudity as you unzip the skirt but never pull the fabric below your hips.

Last is a tiny little romper and stockings which you’re donning as you’re sprawled out on the mattress, arm by your head. It’s fitting because all you want is to crawl into bed minus the glitz and glamor and the designer clothes. By this point, you’re coming down. The high never lasted long enough but, after only getting a tiny amount far too long ago, it was painfully brief. You’re a little foggy and tired, and you hope, as you switch poses, Jonathan can’t see your hands shake.

“I need you to kneel on the bed for me now.”

You’re a little slow, but you get into position as requested—

“Ass off your heels, please.”

Okay, almost as requested. At the order, you lift your bum up, looking at Jonathan, almost expecting some praise. It doesn’t come. You only know you’re where he wants you because he raises the camera. You drop your hands to your thighs, tilt your head and prepare for the telltale flash that never comes.

“You’re totally dead behind the eyes.”

“What?”

He looks at you with a frown. “Nothing is going on up here,” he points to his own visage, “you look bored, tired.”

You freeze, feeling like you’re caught. “I-uh,” you stammer, wincing at your lack of an immediate answer. Could this get any worse? “I am tired. I was just in Italy and I came here right off the plane.”

“Uh huh,” Jonathan nods. You don’t think he believes you. “But the people who see these pictures aren’t gonna get the backstory. You gotta grab them on first look so I really need you to try to perk up a little.”

You bristle, embarrassed to have let anything affect your work. “Got it.”

“Look at the camera like it’s a delicious, juicy steak.”

“I’m a vegetarian.” It’s supposed to be a joke but he doesn’t laugh.

“Then a nicely seasoned chunk of tofu. We’re almost done here, let’s get this last shot and finish up.”

You sigh as you look at the gadget, desperate to finish the shoot off on a high note. You do everything you can—you picture the camera as a beautiful man, a beautiful woman, a brand new Balenciaga.

You have no idea if it’s working until Jonathan says, “that’s a wrap.” He comes around to your side of the bed and offers his hand, which you take. “Let’s get you changed.”

Once you’re back in your street clothes, you say your goodbyes and thank yous to the people on set. It’s a nicety that you don’t partake in often, just when you’re trying to make a good impression. 

The rounds, as expected, take a while and you’re deliberate in their order, saving Jonathan for last. When you approach him, drained but still enthusiastic, it’s with a smile. “I wanted to say goodbye! It was really nice to work with you.” It’s true and you hope to do it again.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It was a pleasure.” He sounds sincere as he grabs your elbow and leans close. You almost think he’s going to kiss your cheek but he goes past, lips an inch from your ear, his voice just a whisper. “Next time, show up sober.”

—

maybe i've stormed out of every single room in this town.

It doesn’t take long for your jet-set lifestyle to have you back in New York. It’s closer to summer, still a little cold, but not enough to deter you from wearing your favorite little red dress when night hits and you receive an invitation to hit the town with some friends. The Roxy most certainly deserved to see you at your best.

Besides, you believed that part of feeling good was looking good and you were certainly both as you settled into the VIP section your group had snagged, bottles and shots flowing. You’d just gotten comfortable, only able to drink half of your vodka cranberry, when, without even really thinking, you grabbed a Marlboro Red and lit up. You didn’t even get the chance to take a drag before security was stomping over.

“Hello, miss, we’re gonna need you to put that out. This isn’t the smoking section.”

“Excuse me?” You pull back, instantly bothered by the intrusion.

“You can’t smoke here,” the security guard explains, a little more straight to the point this time.

Entirely out of spite, you bring the ciggy to your lips, inhaling deeply before exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Interesting, because it seems like I’m managing to do it just fine.”

The man’s jaw clenches, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “I’m going to ask you one more time, please put that out.”

You shake your head, stubborn, annoyed that your buzz had been killed before you could even get a real one going. “Don’t think I’m going to do that.”

“Okay, then you need to leave.”

“Yeah, don’t think I’m gonna do that either.”

You’re being unreasonable. He’s rough and a bit loud, he’s a New Yorker after all, but the man just doing his job certainly has not been unkind to you. There's no reason for you to not comply with the club rules… besides the fact that you have a problem with authority. You hate being told what to do and you’re beyond frustrated that your night out—always damn near a religious experience for you—had been interrupted.

“Well, those are your options. Put out the cigarette or go.”

Eyes rolling towards the ceiling, you grab your purse from beside you and wiggle it. “How much to make you go away so we can go back to enjoying ourselves?”

“Alright,” he says, reaching over to grab ahold of your arm, “it’s time for you to go.”

“Hey,” you call out, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. He tightens his hold as you struggle. “Let go of me.”

“You need to leave now!” Still doing his best to be gentle, he pulls you to your feet and leads you down the stairs.

“This is ridiculous.” All the way you’re pulling, pushing, all in an attempt to get free. In the may lay, the still lit cigarette fell from your grasp, getting stomped out shortly after by another patron’s dancing feet.

“You had your chance.” He’s talking to you the way one would a naughty toddler and it rubs you the wrong way—as if he hadn’t already done enough to end up on your shit list. 

“Oh, fuck off,” you scoff, ignoring the curious stares as you pass, “Do you even know who I am?”

“Yup,” he’s quick to answer. “You’re the lady too stubborn to put out a stupid cigarette.” You don’t know how he’s managed it but he’s gotten you to the door much quicker than you could have anticipated.

With a soft push to your back, he’s nudging you through it. “Now, you enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Asshole!” You call back of your shoulder, arms crossing over your chest.

You’re alone, it’s late and you need to figure out a way to call a car—there’s no way you were going to take a taxi, you were down bad, but not that bad. Before you can make any plans, you hear a voice behind you say, “Man, that was really embarrassing.”

It’s been a while, but you still recognize it instantly. “Jonathan Byers,” you almost sound impressed. “What are you doing here?”

“Once a year they let me out to socialize with all the beautiful people.” He moves so he’s beside you now. You can see he cleans up pretty well. “Got here just in time to see the end of your temper tantrum.”

“Hey, that’s not fair! I didn’t even do anything wrong.”

“Right.” He’s smirking because you’re full of shit and he can tell. “Can’t believe they threw you out like that for no reason. Don’t they know who you are?” His amusement, though, fades as he leans a little closer. “How fucked up are you?”

That was the problem. “I’m not, I’m totally sober,” you bemoan as if there was no bigger tragedy than not being plastered on a Friday night. “Listen—”

You’re ready to ask if he had a cell on him—your hunk of brick had taken an unfortunate trip earlier that month backstage at a show when you were feeling particularly miffed—when you’re interrupted by flashing lights. Paparazzi, of course. When you first got there, you’d been able to enter through the back exit. Now, though, you got thrown out the front door and were a literal sitting duck.

“Shit, shit, shit!” You become frantic, hands jumping to your hair, patting it down, moving to your stomach, smoothing wrinkled fabric. “Murray is gonna kill me if they catch me lookin’ a mess.”

In a second, Jonathan gets an idea. It’s probably (definitely) not a good one, impulsive, sure to disrupt his night. But he’s certain the friends he’s going to have to ditch will understand. “Think you can run in those?”

You follow his gaze down to your shoes. They’re sky-high and strappy. “I’m sure as hell willing to try.”

Before you can react further, Jonathan grabs you and is leading you down the sidewalk before you both break out into a full-on sprint, the sound of your name getting more and more distant. All the paparazzi get are a few shots of your back, hand-in-hand with a “mystery” man.

A few poorly lit, sketchy alleys and sharp turns later, you’re in a parking lot. You practically throw yourself against the nearest car, cold metal soothing your warm skin. You hunch forward, breath labored, smile wide. Jonathan is right beside you, laughing, face flushed and you take a moment to just appreciate the sight.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“Heard that a time or two,” he teases, catching your gaze. “I’m parked somewhere in here… You need a ride?”

“You have a car? In New York City?”

“Makes escaping from paparazzi really easy.” It’s a total joke. 

Up until a matter of minutes ago, he had zero experience with the concept and hadn’t even been sure his plan would work. Outside of those in the industry, he was able to maintain a certain anonymity and that was a serious benefit to being on the other side of the camera. “Come on, where am I taking you?”

You didn’t think it was possible but somehow your grin gets bigger.

—

In record time, you’re idling outside the Carlyle, the only hotel you’re willing to stay at in the city, a few slices of dollar pizza Jonathan had insisted on paying for on your lap. You’re quiet, so is he. But you’re not sitting in silence, Man In the Box plays on the radio. You picked it out.

As soon as you’d gotten settled in the passenger seat, you started rummaging through his CDs. Turns out, you had very different taste in music, not a surprise, and that was the only band you recognized. Your latest douchebag you’d dated for a couple weeks had been a big fan and dragged you to a show.

“So…” The word comes out in a single breath as you grip the handle but don’t open the door. “Do you wanna come up with me?”

He takes so long to answer you think he’s going to say no but, much to your surprise, he says, “Yeah, sure.”

One quiet elevator ride later, you’re opening the door, kicking your shoes off, and tossing your purse and room key on the bed. You plop down on the sofa and motion him forwards. “Come on,” you hold up a piece of pizza in each hand, “let’s eat.”

He ends up on the opposite side of the couch, pressed as tightly to the armrest as he could be while you take up the rest of the space, legs stretched out and toes tucked under his hip. 

You take your first bite and hum in pleasure, eyes closing. “This was a really good choice.”

“I practically lived off this shit when I first moved here,” Jonathan admits. “I know all the best cheap spots.”

“How did you even end up in New York?” The question falls out before you can even think about it. You don’t want to come off as nosey, but you’re curious. “Aren’t you from, uh, Illinois?”

“Indiana,” he corrects. “Hawkins, Indiana.” You blink, you’ve never heard of the place. “It’s a tiny, tiny town a couple hours outside of Indianapolis.”

You nod as if that clears everything up. “Big difference compared to here.”

“Huge,” he agrees, wiping the corner of his lip with a napkin. He misses a spot, you don’t mention it. “Always wanted to go to NYU, though. So I think I was prepared for it in a way.”

“NYU,” you repeat. “Good school. I’m guessing that’s where you majored in photography?”

“Yup.”

“How’d that translate to you getting involved in fashion? Doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“You got that right,” Jonathan laughs. Not your first time hearing it that night but you decide in that moment you really like the sound of it. “I honestly kinda stumbled into it by accident. A friend of a friend needed a photographer for a show and she sweet-talked me enough that I couldn’t say no. 

“Then I guess I liked it enough that I never stopped.” Younger him would be shocked. He always pictured himself photographing world events or foreign conflicts. “Not as cool of a story as yours, though. Didn’t Vogue say you were discovered in Paris?”

He says it like it’s no big deal but you’re honored that, not only had he read something about you, he even remembered. “Yeah, I was on vacation with a friend. We went out one night, ran into the right person, and here we are.”

“So you just went out to grab a drink and someone decided you should be on magazines?” He shrugs. “Makes sense. So you were on a trip to Paris but you’re from…”

“Here, actually. Born and raised on the Upper East Side.”

Jonathan can’t help himself. When you admit you’re a born and bred New Yorker, he looks around, wondering why you’re here in a nice, yes, but impersonal hotel room. He doesn’t ask about it, though. Instead, he settles for a diplomatic, “Must be nice to be able to come back so often.”

“I guess.” You’re non-committal because, while you love New York, there’s no real sentimental value to it. You’re not close with your family and you always avoid the Brownstone you grew up in. “It’s nice to visit some of the old haunts, for sure.”

From there, with the basics out of the way, the two of you settle into an informal game of 20 questions. You find out he has a young brother, his favorite color is green and he really likes the Friday The 13th franchise.

You talk about your love for travel, how buying beachfront is the best decision you ever made, and your almost excessive collection of glass dolphin figurines.

You trade facts, both important and seemingly insignificant until it’s the wee hours in the morning and you can’t keep your eyes open anymore.

—

When you wake up, still on the couch, a blanket has been draped over you, the sun is shining through the open curtains and you’re alone. It doesn’t surprise you, there was no need for Jonathan to stay, but you still find yourself disappointed as you swing your feet to the ground and sit up.

You’re mid-stretch, arms raised to the ceiling when you heard the door open. You jump, contorting your body so you’re both cowering behind the back of the sofa and peeking over it.

No masked intruder appears. it’s only nice, totally not scary Jonathan with your room key in one hand and a greasy paper bag in the other.

He seems amused by your reaction but still manages to let out a barely believable “sorry” as he walks towards you, handing off both items.

“Didn’t think you’d be up yet,” he admits, fighting a smile. “I’ve got an early morning shoot so I need to head out. I figured I’d drop by the bodega and grab breakfast before I do.”

You didn’t even notice you were hungry until you realize what you were holding—a delicious, totally bad-for-you bacon egg and cheese. You can’t remember the last time you had a BEC, too much fat and carbs and far too naughty, but you’ll enjoy every second you spend devouring it.

Your finger pokes at a spot where the grease made the paper especially thin, and you grin. “You’re a bad influence, Jonathan.”

“Jon.” The correction is a knee-jerk reaction, one even he hadn’t been expecting. The list of people who call him that is very small and you apparently just got added to it.

“Well, Jon,” you put emphasis on the second word, “thank you. For breakfast and last night. I had fun.”

“Me too.”

A silence falls over the two of you, neither speaking until Jonathan clears his throat and motions towards the door, “Well, I should…”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. See you around?”

“Definitely.”

—

all of you, all of me intertwined.

The next time you see Jonathan it’s in Paris for Fashion Week.

“I can’t believe they brought you all the way out here for runway work.” You associate him with editorials, high fashion magazines, and designer campaigns.

He waves that off. “Karl’s always been so good to me. If he calls, I answer.”

“So you’re just doing the Chanel show today?”

“Mhm,” he confirms, nonchalant. 

You’re a bit busier, having to walk for Givenchy, Dior, and Jean Paul Gaultier. For models, being a bigger name was both a blessing and a curse: more shows, more publicity, more money. But a busier schedule also meant more pressure and less free time.

“It’s gonna be a while, but do you wanna grab dinner or something later?” You weren’t one to beat around the bush. It’d been a while and the two of you ending up in the same city in another country felt a little bit like fate.

“Don’t they have parties after these things?” He knows they do, he just can’t believe you’d willingly miss out on one.

“Yeah, why? You going?”

That gets a chuckle out of him. “Fuck no. I guess I figured you would be, though.”

You shrug. “I think I can miss one. So… dinner?”

“It’s a date.”

He says it so casually like it’s nothing, but the implication weighs heavily on you. Through hair and make-up, last-minute fittings, and the actual shows, that’s all you can think about.

—

You decide on a little café near your hotel. It’s not the height of cuisine, especially not in a city like Paris, but Jonathan certainly wasn’t going to complain and it’s easy for you.

It had been a long day and you were feeling the effects. You rarely did a show without a little help, let alone three. But you hadn’t forgotten the first time you met Jonathan.

Next time, show up sober.

Sober was an interesting concept, something you didn’t find yourself being often. Sometimes it was a more hedonistic desire—to indulge, to have a little fun. Others it was purely professional, a little bump here and there to give you some energy, to give you an edge. It was a routine—definitely not an addiction, as you always insisted—that you’d been so quick to disrupt because… well, you weren’t entirely sure why.

You were drawn to Jonathan. In an industry full of fake and phony, he was real, refreshing. Maybe—just maybe—that made you wanna do better. At least, you know, when he was around.

You lounged in the dark, iron seat, picking at your croissant between breaks in conversation. A full meal seemed like too much so you both decided on pastries and fancy little drinks.

“I saw your last show. You did great.”

You look up, surprised. “Seriously?”

“How did those giant ass hats not mess up your balance?”

“What?” You guffaw, hand flying to your mouth in hopes of quieting the noise. Givenchy’s show had a few fanciful accessories, but none that obstructed day-to-day movement. “They’re just straw, Jon.”

“Oh. Well, they were still kinda silly.” He leaves forward conspiratorially, voice quiet, a brow quirked. “I don’t think I understand fashion.”

You beam back at him, “I promise your secret is safe with me.”

“You looked beautiful, though. Even with the hats.”

You preen at the praise, practically glowing. But you play it off, tone almost teasing as you say, “Alright, you sweet talker.” You still want to seem cool and collected.

Jonathan picks up his cup and takes a sip. Left behind is a little whip cream mustache.

“Oh, you got a little—“ You point to your mouth, watching as he gets the message, hand dropping to the table to grab a napkin.

He doesn’t get the chance to make another move before you’re leaning over the table, thumb swiping over the smooth skin. You’re the closest you’ve ever been to him. You can feel his breath, see the way his brow furrows, the way his eyelashes kiss his cheeks when he blinks.

Head fuzzy, abandoning any restraint, you cut the little bit of space left and press your lips to his. You’re in public so it’s not as wild and passionate as maybe you would expect—or hope. But it is nice, soft. He tastes like mocha and Chapstick and it feels right.

You don’t want it to stop but he pulls away far too soon for your tastes. He’s quiet and you’re worried you crossed a line, maybe read some signals wrong. But then he’s smiling, resting his forehead against yours. “Where are you staying? Are you closer?”

—

The walk to your hotel is brisk and fun. You’re holding hands, bumping shoulders, giggling. You feel like a teenager again. If that was innocent, sweet, the ride in the elevator is anything but. You get in more messy kisses and heavy petting than you thought possible in a brief lift ride.

Even then, you’re both holding onto the little bit of self-control you have left until you’re in the safety of the hotel room. The door shuts and a switch flips, Jonathan spins you around so your back is pressed against it. His hands grip your hips, yours rest on his chest.

He’s always gentle, and deliberate in his actions, but now he’s running on instinct, primal need. His hands move to your chest, fingers sliding into the gaps of your blouse. There are too many buttons for him to mess with so he pulls them apart, sending them flying to the floor. His eyes widen, and he licks his lips—you’re not wearing a bra.

You pull away, gasping. “Jon, I liked that shirt. It was Chanel.”

He’s in no way apologetic when he says, “I’ll get you another one. I know a guy.”

He means it too. But exploring the newly exposed flesh is far more interesting to him than discussing clothing. Pushing the now torn fabric off your shoulders and tossing it to the ground, his mouth attacks your neck, sucking on a sweet spot.

You moan, fingers digging into shoulders, back arching, and god, he would do anything to hear that noise again. Only once he’s sure he has paid enough attention to that side, he switches, still being mindful of your work, careful not to leave any marks.

Your grip moves from his shoulders to the hem of his shirt, tugging on the fabric. “Wanna see you.”

How could he deny you of that? He breaks contact just long enough to rid himself of the garment before he’s back on you, lips moving from your neck to your chest.

You marvel at the smooth skin that’s been unveiled, surprised by the hard muscle beneath your touch. His definition is a sneaky one, he’s lean, almost kind of soft looking, but built. He’s beautiful.

Jonathan’s mouth is occupied, tongue flicking against one hard nipple has his hands travel lower. With the ease of experience, he pops the button of your jeans and slips a finger past the band of your panties, swiping it against your folds.

“You’re soaked, baby. Soaked.”

You practically whimper at the words, rutting your hips, desperate for some friction. “More, please.”

“I hear you, baby, I hear you.”

He has all sorts of ideas in mind but they require there to be far less clothing involved.

Jonathan pulls his hand back, grabbing ahold of your pants and underwear, pulling them down in one swift motion. He helps you step out of them, his hand finding the small of your back to urge you forward. “Get on the bed, sweetheart.”

The rest of his clothing joins you on the floor—in his haste to get to you, his foot catches in his slacks and sends him stumbling, he prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that you don’t notice—and by that point, you are sprawled across the bed, chest heaving. You’re desperate for him and he has to take a moment to just marvel at you. “You are…” every word in existence flies through his head—breathing, stunning, exquisite—all are fitting but he settles on “incredible.”

“Just c’mere.” With more skin exposed, you’re even more eager, hands reaching out towards him. He’s not just beautiful, you’re able to confirm, that he’s beautiful from head to toe.

He indulges your desire, crawling into bed, hovering above you, his hands coming up to rest on either side of your head as he dipped low, mouth finding yours. This kiss was different than the others. Sloppy, but with the knowledge that you didn’t have to rush, that you both could take your time and enjoy each other. Caged beneath him, you think you can get used to this.

Almost reluctantly, he pulls away, his lips leaving a trail down your neck, your sternum, wet kisses being left on your stomach. The lower he gets, the more time he takes until he’s right above your pussy. On instinct, your legs spread and he settles in-between them.

“This okay?” He asks.

Eyes squeezed shut, you’re beyond words so you nod. He nips at your thigh, not hard but enough bite behind it to get your attention.

“Gotta be sure you want this, sweetheart. I really need you to use your words, okay?”

You let out a huff of air, body on fire. “Yes, yes, it’s okay. More than okay. Want you.”

Satisfied, he lowers himself back down, but your hands stop him before his mouth can make content. “No, no, I want to feel you.”

He’s surprised and, wanting a taste, a little disappointed. Jonathan sits back, looking at you. “You sure?” His gaze moves to his crumpled pair of pants where his wallet sat. “I didn’t bring anything.” He sure as fuck did not expect the night to go this way.

“I’m on the pill, it’s fine.” You prop yourself up on your elbows. “Just need you inside me.”

Well, fuck. Who could say no to that? He dips two fingers in your wetness, and curls them inside you, just teasing at this point, before wrapping the digits around his length and pumping it a few times. He lines himself up with your entrance and slowly pushes in, inch by inch.

His hands fall to your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh. “How you feeling, baby?”

“Good,” you assure him, “need more.”

At your assurance, he starts thrusting, not too hard, but steady. He looks down watching himself go in and out of you, still amazed he ended up in your bed.

You moan and tremble underneath him, enough to spur him to go a little harder, a little faster. Your whines and his breathy groans mix in the air. It’s a nice sound.

Keeping up with the pace he set, he leans forward, bracing himself on his forearms so he can capture your lips in a bruising kiss. You’re sweaty, out of breath and Jonathan is sure he’d never seen you look better—not even on the cover of magazines.

He dips to nibble at the flesh of your neck, across your collarbone. You arch off the bed, almost embarrassed by how quickly you came undone and you can feel that familiar tightness in your belly.

“I’m close,” your voice is husky, barely above a whisper.

That’s all he needs to hear. He balances him on one arm, the other sliding in between your two bodies, the pad of his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in slow, tight circles.

Your arms fly up, wrapping around his shoulders, manicured nails digging into the flesh there.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he encourages, continuing to pump into you. “Let go, need to see you cum for me.”

His words alone are enough to send you over the edge but coming with his strong, steady strokes and his thumb on your clit, it’s almost too much. Your thighs clench, your toes curl and you come completely undone.

He’s not long behind you. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” your quick to answer, still coming down. “I want you to come cum inside me.”

He groans, taking one deep thrust and he’s done, officially too far gone, spilling his seed. Jonathan pumps into you, slow, milking the rest out of him before he comes to a stop, staying perfectly still for a few moments before pulling out.

He collapses beside you, trying to catch his breath.

You’re tired, legs still quivering and you’re totally on cloud nine. “Can’t believe that just happened.”

“I’ve been thinking about it since I met you,” he admits. “Next time—“

If possible, the words perk you up even more. Gone is any desire to seem cool, unbothered. You twist around to get a good look at him. “There’s gonna be a next time?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” Jonathan pauses, bravado slipping a bit. “If, you know, you want to.”

You shift a bit, pressing a kiss to the part of his body closest to you—his bicep. “I definitely want to.”

"I told you to stay in the God damn boat and what do you do?"

"That's what you're mad about?" You can't help yourself, you scoff. Nothing about the situation then or now is humorous, but it is absurd.

"That's funny to you?" Steve bellows, the question is rhetorical, but you're going to answer it anyway.

"Of course not!" Thrown on the defensive, your shoulders stiffen, your brows furrow. You hate yourself for it, but you match his volume almost instantly. "But I don't know what you expected me to do."

"I expected you for once to just listen to me. That's it, just fucking listen."

He flings his arms out, an act of pure exasperation and you take a step back. Physically backing down, but certainly not verbally. Your boyfriend was in danger and you acted accordingly. Steve could throw as many temper tantrums as he wanted to but you did nothing wrong.

"I thought you were drowning and I was supposed to just sit there? Don't be stupid."

Stupid. A word Steve hated and was far too used to hearing. From his father, ex-girlfriends, and teachers. It followed him around like a shadow.

You weren't exactly calling him that but it didn't matter—treated like an imbecile, used to condescending answers and pitying looks, it set Steve further off anyway.

"Stupid?" He repeats it, tone venomous, spitting the word out through gritted teeth. "That's what this is about, isn't it? Your big buffoon of a boyfriend can't be taken seriously, huh?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"No, I think it was," he disagrees, taking a step towards you. It's a subconscious movement, but one that sets you on alert.

Heart thumping wildly in your chest, body warm, pure adrenaline coursing through your veins, it's like you went back in time. In an instant, you went from a self-assured, confident young woman to the scared, lonely kid hiding in the stairwell, peeking from behind the door frame as your parents argued.

You didn't like that feeling then and you sure as hell don't like it now.

"You're dating the town idiot, right?" Steve continues. "Gotta make sure dummy doesn't get himself into trouble."

Deep down, Steve knows what he's doing and saying isn't okay. Nothing about this is constructive or helpful, but he can't stop himself.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees it. He's in the Upside Down, the bats barreling down on him and, in that moment, convinced he's going to die, his mind is on you and only you. He can't think of anything more tragic than not being able to see you one last time.

But then, in an instant, you're there. Actually there, not just a figment of his imagination. When he's able to take that first deep breath, all he feels is relief. That feeling, though, once he remembers where he is—where you are—is replaced by anger.

By coming after him, you put yourself in danger and, with all the death-defying situations he had found himself in, that scared him more than anything.

Maybe if the two of you weren't screaming at each other you would have been able to read between the lines, to see what was really bothering him, but you were too far gone.

"You're not an idiot, I don't think that." You're desperate, hands shaking and mouth going dry, you want him to stop, to just drop it. "I just—I wanted to help."

"You don't get it, I didn't need your help."

Your gaze drops to his neck where an angry red ring mars the smooth, tan flesh. You jut your chin out, gesturing towards the wound. "Seems like you did need it, actually."

Instinctively, one hand goes up to cover the spot in question, hoping to conceal it. "We're not talking about me, we're talking about you and the stunt you pulled."

"Stunt? That was a stunt to you?" The trivializing of the situation, of just how much you cared and were willing to do for him, was the most insulting thing he'd said thus far. "Fine. My deepest apologies for saving your fucking life, then."

Okay, sure, it was a group effort ultimately. Had Robin, Nancy, and Eddie not also joined, you both would have been bat food, but you were the first to jump in after Steve and that should count for something.

"What, you want me to get on my hands and feet and thank you? I had it handled."

He most definitely didn't, but you didn't have it in you to argue. Not anymore. Between Vecna, the gate, and now this, you were drained.

You just didn't feel right. This awful feeling settled in the pit of your stomach, your chest felt tight and your cotton mouth only got worse.

"Whatever, I'm getting some water."

You brush past him as you head towards the kitchen. You have been inside the Harrington home more times than you could count so just grabbing a cup should have been an easy task. 

But your hands—why won’t they just stop moving?—made it damn near impossible.

“Shit, shit,” just above a whisper, you repeat the word like a mantra as if that would steady the appendage.

It worked too. Kind of, anyway. At least until it was time to head to the sink. Just a few steps away from your destination, the glass slips from your unsteady grasp, hitting the floor and shattering into tiny pieces.

“Oh god.”

If you were worried before, this new wave of panic kicks it up several notches. Steve was already so angry at you, that you didn’t want to even consider his reaction if he saw the mess you made.

So, when you hear him call your name from the other room, you drop to your knees, ready to clean it up. You just needed to buy yourself some time. 

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. The kitchen should have been silent but you could hear this awful noise. It’s labored, kind of wheezy and you wonder for a moment if there was something wrong with the fridge. It takes you a few seconds to realize it’s coming from you. 

You couldn’t breathe, not like normal. Your hand flies to your chest, the tightness  replaced with a stabbing pain, your heart still going a mile a minute, you hope even light pressure would relieve it enough to allow you to fill your lungs. It doesn’t happen.

You have your back pressed against the cabinet, hands dangerously close to the glass shards when Steve walks in. He heard something drop and your lack of response had him worried. He knew then and there something wasn’t right but that assumption still didn’t prepare him for the sight before.

“Baby?” Just like that, any petty frustrations fell to the wayside. All he felt was concern.

When he first saw you, he was worried Vecna had somehow cursed you, but when you looked up with wide, wild eyes he was relieved. Whatever was going on was more tangible, maybe he could actually help.

“What’s going on?” You don’t answer—you can’t—but he carries on, kicking glass out of the way so he can join you on the floor. “Look at me.” It feels impossible, a Herculean task, but you manage it somehow and when you do, he takes your hand. “Good, good. Let’s breathe, yeah?” He’s totally out of his depth, woefully unprepared, but he figures that can’t hurt.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

You don’t know how long you’re sitting there with Steve just breathing but after a while, you start to feel better. The tension in your body eases, you feel almost calm, the color comes back to your cheeks. He notices it too.

“There’s my girl. What was that? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I guess I just got a little overwhelmed with everything going on. You know, the Upside Down, you being mad at me..” It’s a jab, yeah, but one you figured you earned the right to take.

“I wasn’t mad at you.” You quirk a brow and he sighs. “I really wasn’t. I was scared.”

It was hard for him to admit. He didn’t grow up talking about his feelings; that was not a lesson taught in the Harrington household, you pushed it down, ignoring it until you exploded. All he knew was passive aggression—thanks, mom—and full-on active aggression—thanks, dad—but healthy conversations were foreign to him.

But for you? He was willing to try.

“Why, though?”

“Because when you followed after me, you could have died. You shouldn’t be wrapped up in this stuff and it’s my fault that you are. You should be just a normal, ridiculously pretty girl in a lame small town totally unaware of this sci-fi shit. Going to college, dating a business major with a nice family.” And a real future.

“God, Steve, I gotta say... that all sounds really boring.” Neither of you are feeling particularly jovial but that still gets a smile out of him. You consider it a win. “I think it’s really sweet you want to protect me. But you gotta understand, I’m an adult. If I’m here, it’s because I wanna be.

“I love you, okay? And I want to be on whatever crazy ride you’re going on with you. You don’t have to like it, but when you have a problem, I need you to talk about it.”

How could he argue with that? “You’re right, totally right,” he agrees. “I love you too and I’m really sorry. I don’t—” I don’t want to be like my dad is what he wants to say, but instead he goes with, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.” And you do. He may not be perfect, but you truly believed everything he did was with the best intentions.

“Good. Now, let’s get you upstairs. I think someone could use a shower.”

“Rude!” You try to sound offended but fail.

With no complaints, you allow Steve to gently pull you to your feet and lead you towards the stairs. You were exhausted, things were still weird and you had a teen-killing interdimensional monster to deal with but you were still somehow feeling optimistic.